Life Takes a Turn
by alittlewriting
Summary: A Doctor Blake AU in which Mei Lin remains, mercifully, deceased as Lucien believed, but someone else comes through that door at the exact wrong time in episode 4.3.
1. Chapter 1

Life Takes a Turn, A Doctor Blake Fan Fiction

Chapter One

 _No, I didn't think he would propose that day. That's not the kind of thing I'd let myself expect. But I had felt sure of him in a way I never had. He's a hard man to understand sometimes, and I think I know him as well as one can. But that's part of what makes him worth it all, that sense of not being completely sure what's coming next. I can say for those few days, since I bought that ticket home from Adelaide, I felt like he was only looking at me when we were in the room together. I felt like every smile was mine. And every touch begged another. I can't ever remember being that happy. And then, well, life takes a turn._

He hadn't kissed her yet. He hadn't even said he loved her. So, as far as Jean was concerned, she could wake up tomorrow and find that everything she and Lucien didn't quite say on the bus to Adelaide dissolved around her. She'd been feeling this way for a week, now. But still, every morning, Lucien arrived just after Christopher left for work. And every morning he looked just a little less nervous standing there with his shirt sleeves rolled up and a hopeful smile on his face. She got a little more comfortable each day, too, in fact that last morning she just handed him the baby on the doorstep while she finished breakfast.

Who would have known Lucien Blake was marvelous with babies?

But mostly, he made the coffee and washed the dishes while Jean showed Ruby how to make herself a schedule and held her hand while the baby cried in her crib. "She's fine," Jean said, squeezing Ruby's hand, in part to provide comfort but mostly to keep her from jumping up and grabbing the child. "She just needs to settle." And then she'd give Lucien a look to keep _him_ from rescuing Amelia.

Ruby loved Lucien almost as much as Amelia did. He told her about the Asian Pit Viper they'd found in Ballarat and how Jean had pretended to shop for a vacuum cleaner to help solve the case.

"We did need a new vacuum cleaner!" Jean insisted.

"I remember you being very upset that week. Was it because of the broken vacuum?"

"Oh, my goodness," Jean said in exasperation, as she rose to fix the tea. But she patted Lucien on the shoulder as she walked by and he caught her eye with a smile.

It only took three days and the child was sleeping through the night. The dark circles started to disappear from under Ruby's eyes. She greeted her husband at the door again when he came home in the evenings and Christopher went from looking relieved and grateful to a little impatient.

Jean wondered how she ever could have thought she'd be needed here permanently, or even for an extended time. Did she ever think that? Or was she just looking for a way out. She had done many hard things in her life, but living under the same roof as Lucien Blake was, at times, one of the hardest. She had fought hard for the control she exercised every day to be Mrs. Jean Beazley. It hadn't come naturally or easily, but she'd done it. And she felt it fray around Lucien. His smile. His warmth. His touch. He felt like the one great adventure she'd always longed to take.

And then, it was like he didn't see her at all. What had she been thinking? That a man would come make everything alright? Would solve her problems – problems she didn't think she had till she'd met him? No, she was a widow who needed a stable job and a stable life. Leaving just made sense.

But Lucien had followed her, hadn't he? And he came to her son's house every day. He helped. He joked. He was clearly uncomfortable at times, but he didn't leave.

"Jean, I've received a telegram," he started, but she didn't let him finish. She knew this was coming.

"Then you have to go, don't you?"

There was an express bus early in the morning, before the house was generally awake, even Amelia. She would borrow Christopher's car.

"I'll take you," Jean said.

"I'm sorry. I meant to stay until…ah…"

She stopped him. She didn't want to hear it. Because whatever it was he was about to say, it probably wasn't enough, but she'd falter anyway. Better to stay ahead of it.

"Until what?" Jean asked. "You were going to have to go back to work eventually."

"Right," he said. And then Ruby had walked in and expressed her own sorrow at losing Lucien. Well, what did she expect? Jean heard herself snap at the girl but didn't actually mind. Sometimes people just needed to be stronger.

Jean bundled Lucien out the door soon after. He needed his rest, she told him and he did what she told him to do. He was suddenly just Lucien again and she was just Jean, or maybe Mrs. Beazley. Maybe he'd melted away her anger by showing up on that bus but never intended to do anything more. Maybe he'd held her like that because that's what it would take to keep her. Maybe he just needed his housekeeper. But she was done being Lucien Blake's housekeeper. Wasn't she?

The next morning had been about logistics and pleasantries during the short drive to the station, until the last awkward moment when she wrapped her coat tightly around. And the early morning breeze played with her hair. There wasn't anything left to say and yet, they hadn't said anything at all.

She couldn't stop watching him but couldn't actually look at him. She thought he might be doing the same. Finally, there was no ignoring that this was the goodbye they didn't say in Ballarat.

"They seem to be doing fairly well now, with the baby," Lucien offered, his eyes on his shoes as he broke the silence.

"They do. Ruby just needed a little help being strong."

"We all need that sometimes, Jean."

Her eyes shot up to his now. Sometimes he looked at her and he seemed so young. He was five years her senior and absolutely a grown man who could and did tell everyone else how to handle their own lives. But when he looked at her like that, he might as well be Amelia with her arms up in the crib. She opened her mouth to respond but didn't know what to say. He stepped forward. She thought he might kiss her then. She felt herself flush in expectation and immediately looked down at her own feet so he wouldn't see.

He stopped short. "Are you… are you staying long, Jean?"

"I don't know," she said. She squinted into the wind, looking toward the waiting bus. "They don't seem to need me much, but…" Why was this so hard? Just, send him off. End this for both of them. The corners of her eyes watered, probably from the wind. She was about to tell him he ought to hurry along when he continued.

"I need you, Jean. I need you so very much."

A train whistle blew and she met his eyes again. He put his hand on her cheek and someone had the audacity to bump into them with a trolley full of luggage.

"Sorry, ma'am." He said.

"Quite alright," she said. But it wasn't alright. It's just what you say.

Lucien smiled at her now and everything inside of her melted - whatever strength she thought she had, whatever moral fortitude. He reached out and cupped her entire face in his warm hands. He ran a thumb across her lips.

"Lucien," she said, hearing the tremor in her voice, feeling her knees weaken. She might actually stumble. How embarrassing would that be? But she didn't really care and that scared her more than anything. He could undo her completely and she was perfectly willing to let him.

"When you come home," he said, meaningfully and she understood. When, not if. Home, not back. He'd always been so clear about that. Home. "Can we see about things, about… us."

She nodded quickly, fighting back the tears and losing. He brushed them away with his thumbs as he always did when she cried. Yes, yes they would see about it. Dear Lord, please.

The bus driver told him they needed to leave, much like the one in Ballarat had told her just a week before. When she thought, maybe, she'd seen him for the last time.

"You'd better go," she said now, her voice catching.

He stepped forward awkwardly and kissed her on the forehead. It would do.

"I'll see you…"

"Soon," she said. "I'll call."

He exhaled. His shoulders relaxed. He smiled like the grown Lucien again. "Thank you," he said, and stepped onto the bus. She watched him find his seat. Watched him get settled. He caught her eye, and she waved but he wouldn't look away. Neither could she. Not till the bus had pulled all the way out and her eyes could only make out the shape of him through the window, and then, nothing.

He hadn't kissed her, not really. He hadn't said he loved her, not exactly, but she thought, maybe, it was all real, anyway.

She squared her shoulders, flipped her collar, walked straight to the ticket window, and bought a ticket home.


	2. Chapter 2

His hands had been so warm.

Jean tried to focus on the flowers she watered just then, but her mind kept slipping out from under her.

Lucien kissing her hand in the car. Lucien brushing her arm as he said good night. Honestly, she was going to get nothing done and what she did accomplish she'd probably do backwards.

"That's beautiful, Jean. Just wondering though…this little chap, here. Do you think he needs repotting?"

How long had he been standing there and could he see where her mind had gone? She smiled.

"Mmm, you're getting quite good at this."

Unless it could be used in a murder Lucien had no idea what grew out of the ground – and even then, he'd have had to ask Jean.

"I've learned from the best."

"Is that right? And the name of this one is?"

She could play along. But when he pointed across the room pretending to identify something or other she followed his gaze, waiting for him to walk past her, lift up the spotted hydrangea or whatever he'd called it. But he didn't. He stopped right behind her, and wrapped his hands around her shoulders, slid them down her arms, while he carried on about the plants in her ear. He was right there. Her smile faded as she melted into the warmth of him behind her.

It may have been a long journey to this moment. But there was no more doubt. He turned her ever so slightly toward him. He bent his beautiful head toward hers. She closed her eyes.

And then the damn phone rang and he jumped away from her like a school boy and she startled like she'd been called out by God himself.

He backed out of the sun room, nervously chattering about being the one to answer it. For a sophisticated international spy turned doctor, getting close to her made him awfully nervous.

She smiled to herself. She should help him relax.

She'd have dinner ready early, maybe. They'd have time to alone tonight and… no. She was sure of him, but anything could happen between now and dinner. She trusted him, but she didn't trust life. She set down her spade, pulled off her gloves, and with a toss of her head she strode into the house.

"Lucien?" She called.

"I have to go. Someone's missing, apparently."

"And they need the police surgeon for a missing person now?"

"It's to do with the crime scene… Ah," he said, noticing the intensity in her face. "Did I forget something?" He patted his vest pockets with his left hand, and looked at the medicine bag in his right.

"You did," she said, slowly.

Walking toward him, slowly.

Meeting his gaze and holding it there.

He dropped the bag.

She kept on till she walked straight into his arms and paused not at all as he wrapped them around her. He parted his lips and breathed her into him. His hands pulled at her back. She felt all the heat of his body in hers and on hers and through hers and in that moment she had no doubt at all that this man was hers and that he was the love she had waited her entire life to find. She pressed her hips against his and he moaned as his tongue pushed past her lips. Oh, the promise of that tongue.

But Matthew had called and he had places to go.

She summoned every bit of self-possession she had and pushed against him.

He gasped a bit as he pulled away, not quite ready to exist apart from her yet.

"Jean," he said.

"I'll see you for dinner," she said.

"Yes, ah, right. I…"

"Well, you're needed, aren't you?" she said, smiling like she did in the sunroom. Confident, enough to play with him.

"I'll be home as soon as I can," he said with a deep rasp in his voice.

She was sure he would be.


	3. Chapter 3

_Though I hadn't anticipated the way that day would end, I wonder if perhaps my heart had known something of it, even though my head had not. I think sometimes we understand things deep inside ourselves and we keep them buried there, where our mind can't reject them . Do you? At any rate, I found myself thinking of my first kiss, and what came next, after Lucien closed the door behind him. All I wanted to think about was him, but thoughts come as they do._

Ballarat, 1934

It was an unseasonably warm day in early February and Jean had been in an unreasonably bad mood. Or so her mother seemed to think.

"Take care with the dishes," her mother called out. "Do you think we can buy new if you break them?"

She was tempted to throw one on the floor just to watch it shatter at that comment. How far would the shards fly? Would there be a pattern to it? How many would she have to break to find out. But, of course she wouldn't, it would be wasteful and foolish, not to mention spiteful. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with her dishcloth and set the dishes carefully on the drying rack, instead. Summer break was coming to an end and young people were headed back to school and her last conversation with her mother still hung about them like a dirge.

It had taken a lot of courage for Jean to broach the subject, but courage isn't always rewarded. Sometimes it's just the opposite. Much like ambition, or even curiosity, sometimes it just gives life a way to break your heart. Not every farm girl got to graduate from high school, her mother pointed out. She had already sacrificed a lot to allow Jean to do that. She should be grateful for what she'd already learned and not be thinking she was someone she wasn't.

Jean loved to see things grow and she loved to see things heal. There were entire subjects devoted to that at the tertiary school in Ballarat. She didn't have to become a nurse, or even a teacher. She told her mother that.

"I just think there's more to learn, mother. The world is so big."

"But not for us, Jean," her mother had said. "You weren't born to a doctor, you were born to a farmer, and an old one at that. Look around at what we've been given and be grateful. Many have less and so will we if you keep thinking like this."

"But mother," Jean had tried, "I just want to take a few classes. It could help us here, if I took agriculture classes. Or, I could take nursing and help with…"

"With what? With our old age?"

"I just love to study, mother," Jean said softly.

"Oh, I see," her mother stepped forward and put her hand, with its long thin fingers and weathered, freckled skin, on Jean's hair. "You still think life is kind. You think what you love matters. Love what you're given, that's how you get through this life. I'm blessed beyond measure because I was given you. And there's no one as easy to love as my Jean."

Jean nodded. She should have said she loved her, too. But she didn't just then. She just felt like she needed to run away, and the only place to run was inside herself.

There were more dishes to clean that evening. Her anger had dissipated already. Because what good would anger do? But somewhere, deep within, her heart was unsettled. She did love to study, she had told the truth, but it wasn't just that. What she really wanted was adventure, and how foolish was that? Her mother had been right. Jean should have known better. She could learn to love this life, this farm, this town, if she really tried.

A soft rap came at the door. Jean hurried through the kitchen and pulled it open. Her parents had gone to bed just recently and she didn't want them to ask about the visitor. She had an idea who it might be.

"Christopher," she said opening the door quietly.

"Is anyone awake?"

"You shouldn't be here," Jean said.

"But you're glad I am." He smiled and it made his eyes sparkle. Jean was a little glad but she was also a little annoyed that he was being so presumptuous. She didn't need to get in any more trouble today. "Just come outside with me for a minute," he said, pressing.

"Mother just went to bed, but she may still be awake."

"Your mum loves me. Even if she is, she won't be mind. You know I'm right." Jean stood there in the long blue dress she'd made herself staring at Christopher and the night sky behind him. Good girls didn't go out into the night with boys, not even the boy next door. And Jean had always been a good girl. But her fingers were raw from tending the garden and her back ached from doing the dishes and her pride hurt from her mother telling her that's all she'd ever do. Maybe she'd have to take her adventure where she could find it.

"Be quiet!" she warned him as she stepped outside into the summer night. The air was still warm from the heat of the day. The earth radiated it up to them as she followed him down her front path. But he stopped just at the edge of their flower garden, any farther and her mother could see them from her second story window. He nodded to the left and cut through her vegetable garden. She was careful not to tread on anything she'd tended so carefully earlier, but he just tromped on.

"Christopher!" She called after. "Watch where you're stepping!"

"Shh!" He turned around and held a finger to his lips, then pointed up the window. "You're the one who said to be quiet."

Well, yes, but her mother couldn't hear her now.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as she continued to follow. He didn't stop to tell her.

She'd grown up next door to Christopher Beazley her whole life. It wasn't the first time she'd tramped through the fields with him. But this felt different. He felt different. For one, she had to jog to keep up with him. He walked so fast and she had on house slippers. But soon they reached the old willow tree and he turned around and caught her by the shoulders in the moonlight. She gasped.

He held his finger to his lips again, but he was teasing her. Then he backed her up and leaned her against the tree. "Kiss me Jean Mary," he said.

"Christopher!"

He'd flirted with her plenty when they were both in school, but there wasn't anything to it. If anything, she'd felt like seconds, practice. He flirted with everyone.

"Just once," he said, stepping closer. His hands gripped her hips and he leaned closer till their lips were nearly touching.

Sometimes the first step of an adventure is accomplished in one very small movement. She leaned in and caught his lips in hers. They tasted like salt and cigarettes which didn't really surprise her. But she was surprised at how his body melted into hers and how hers responded. She felt part of him. She felt flushed and thrilled and scared to death. But she pulled harder on his lips and his tongue slipped into her mouth as his hands grabbed her hips harder still and his body leaned till she felt the tree bark through her thin cotton dress.

It was time to be done. She couldn't pull back because she was up against the tree. She tried to turn her head but couldn't quite break free, so she pushed against him with both hands. He kissed her harder, just for a minute, then stepped back, slowly, when he was ready.

"You're a good kisser, Jean Mary."

She smoothed out her dress, and with it, some of her pride, and said, "Well don't sound so surprised."

He laughed and said, "I'll see you soon," and ran off into the night, toward the Beazley farm.

She stood there against the tree for a minute, still feeling a little shaken. There's no harm in a kiss, she told herself, and it was something besides taking care of the house. As she walked back, carefully picking out the path by the starlight, she felt a chill. This is what adventure feels like, she told herself. Learn to love it.


	4. Chapter 4

_It might disappoint you to know I haven't always made the right choices. I've failed. And I've paid for it. I told Lucien once I didn't think I was ready yet. And I don't think he understood me. For all his compassion, he can sometimes be quite dense. I'm sure he thought I wasn't yet ready to let go of my past. But, Mattie, it's not the past that has a hold on me, but the future. I wasn't always ready to make the next leap, because when I've leapt before it's been all wrong. And life takes the turns it takes and you can't undo those giant steps forward. They change things. I've so loved living here, with Lucien, seeing him every day, tending to him, to everyone. I wasn't ready to change that. Because things don't always work out the way you hope. But I thought this time it would. I thought, I was ready. And, I guess I was. But life isn't always ready for us._

Lucien, did not, in fact, come home for dinner. He didn't even call. Jean wondered, briefly, if she'd frightened him away by being so unforgivably forward, but Lucien did not walk out that front door like a man who was frightened. Instead, she felt a small thread of her heart pulled by an unwelcome thought. Lucien did work with the police, and he could only cheat death so many times. How often had he come home bleeding from somewhere or other or telling a story of a bold risk and a narrow escape? It hadn't bothered her until this moment, hadn't frightened her anyway. Because it was just at this moment when she felt herself ready to leap into the unknown future and saw the ground falling away beneath her. She knew Lucien would be there to catch her, but would the world let him? As her mother said, life was seldom kind.

But Jean was not one to wring her hands. Lucien took his chances and this was the man she'd chosen. It's not as though he would stop being the police surgeon, nor did she want him to. So, Jean put herself to bed at a reasonable time. She would not wait up like a schoolgirl no matter how quickly her heart beat thinking of where he might be and what he might be doing. But she listened for the door as she changed into her night dress. She took a bit longer setting her hair than she ordinarily did. And at the last minute she slipped into her white robe and walked the house, to double check that all the doors were locked – and listen for the crunch of tires on gravel. But Lucien did not come home. So she dutifully walked back upstairs, removed her robe, sat on the side of her bed, and crossed herself, and as she did she asked the Lord to keep him safe.

"I know the church would not approve of him," she whispered looking up toward the heavens through her darkened window, "and I'm quite sure he doesn't approve of the church. But I've known You a long time. And I know how to recognize You here. I'm sure I see You in his heart, so I have no doubt that you have your eye on him."

Jean paused. Lucien's face came to mind, unbidden. She saw the kindness in his eyes when he spoke to her, and the pain in them when he spoke of himself. She saw the strong line of his jaw and the softness of his beard. She was overcome with the desire to hold his face in her hands and look into his soft blue eyes and tell him how beautiful his heart was and how desperately she wanted to watch over him always. But that wasn't the sort of thing Jean said, or did. Instead, she continued her prayer, and wondered at the catch in her voice.

"The only thing I ask, is that You walk with him tonight, where I cannot." She almost added "and keep him safe," but she had prayed for safety for so hard, for so long, so many years ago, she couldn't bring herself to form those words. Not all prayers are answered. But the Lord knew what Lucien needed, and she trusted Him to answer this one, if, perhaps, she kept it simple and humble enough.

Jean lay down to wait, and hopefully to sleep.

She was sure she would dream of Lucien, and perhaps dream of all the things she didn't want to happen to him. But she was wrong. She dreamt of her past. She dreamt of the last time she'd taken a leap, made a choice, and asked the Lord to make things right.


	5. Chapter 5

April 1934 Ballarat

Christopher came by the farm most nights, waiting till her parents had gone to bed, knowing Jean would still be up, working and waiting.

Last night she'd kissed her mother on the cheek and assured her she didn't mind doing the mending. She liked being up late and watching the stars come out. She was getting enough sleep, it was all fine. Her mother lingered in the doorway, appraising her nearly grown daughter. "I know you wanted more, Jeanie."

"No, no. You're right. This is good work. There's so much to do here," Jean said, lifting her eyes to her mother who smiled broadly. Her mother looked relieved, Jean thought, and she briefly wondered why. She should be concerned, instead. But she wasn't, so Jean had some freedom, well, she had a particular kind of freedom.

Christopher came calling during daylight hours too. And he was right, Jean's mother loved him. Though Jean wasn't sure if her mother liked seeing them together because she liked Christopher, or because she liked seeing Jean settled. Perhaps it brought her peace knowing she'd been right, that holding onto Jean tightly had produced her happiness. That thought irked her, but not enough to do anything about it.

Jean was having her adventure.

Every time Christopher kissed her, and he did almost every night, parts of her came alive she'd never felt before. No wonder girls carried on like they did. She'd always felt like they were just being willful and wrong-headed. Now she knew they were seeking horizons Jean had only imagined.

It felt like a new path opened up for her right where she stood. Life was happening all around her, right here in Ballarat. She'd been silly to want to leave, just like her mother had said. It would have been foolish.

"Good night, Mother," Jean said, hoping her mother wouldn't linger for more conversation and hoping Christopher wouldn't show up too soon. This freedom had its limits. But her mother retreated up the stairs, looking satisfied, and Jean sighed in relief.

And then, not two stitches later, the soft knock on the door.

Jean ran to it and yanked it open. She put her fingers to her lips.

"That again?" Christopher said in hushed tones.

"She's only barely just gone upstairs."

Christopher nodded. "I have a surprise for you tonight," he whispered. "Meet me in your barn." He glanced toward the stairwell. "When the coast is clear," he said with a wink.

She ushered him away and eased the door shut. As much as her mother liked Christopher she absolutely would not approve of her meeting him after dark without a chaperone. So, she waited, listening for signs that all was still upstairs. And she wondered. What sort of surprise did Christopher have planned? He seemed so excited, almost nervous. Could he? No. It was far too early for him to propose. They'd been seeing each other like this for just weeks, but really, they'd known each other their whole lives. Maybe it wasn't. He hadn't asked her anyone's permission, but maybe he wanted to ask her first, privately. He liked their time alone. What other kind of surprise would it be?

The floorboards squeaked and groaned predictably as her mother moved from her wash stand to her bed. She hated wishing her mother would hurry but equally hated the thought of Christopher waiting in the barn getting restless. She was lucky to have him and she knew it. How long would he wait for her?

Jean felt the familiar guilt at deceiving her parents, but really, she did so much for them, and she'd agreed to stay here. She just wanted this one thing for herself, was it so bad? Just this time with Christopher when no one was watching, when she could feel free.

The floorboards quieted. Her mother would be in bed with a book. She'd be asleep in minutes, too tired from the day's work to read for long. Again, Jean felt a pang of guilt, and again, she pushed it aside. Just go. Take a leap, Jean. Christopher will catch you.

She opened the front door so softly. She didn't dare grab a jacket even though the heat of summer had faded into an early autumn chill. She didn't mind the cold. Sometimes when we're the least comfortable we're the most alive, she'd found. So she slipped out into the night with just her thin white dress and the yellow sweater she'd had around her shoulders.

It was quite dark, her path lit only by the light of the stars, the soft glow of the waning moon, and her memory. A thin wisp of a cloud floated across the sliver of moon, cutting it in half, and she shivered, even though it didn't make the air any colder. She knew the path to the barn by heart, and had taken many times after dark, but this night she chose her steps carefully. Tonight felt different, like something was coming, and it made her jump at every sound.

Would she say yes? If that was the surprise. She stood still in the dark and took a breath. She closed her eyes. She imagined Christopher down on one knee and all that would come next. She imagined being sure of him, of being wanted. What would it feel like to know someone wanted you every single day? That someone saw you, doing the mending or the dishes, and actually cared how you felt or wanted to know what you were thinking? Surely that's what marriage was. It wasn't exactly what her parents marriage was, but her father was so much older and frail and her mother worked so hard. It's what marriage would be like with Christopher, wouldn't it? Even if it wasn't exactly how things were now?

Something rustled in the rose bush nearby and she jumped. A bunny hopped across her path and she nearly shrieked. She clapped a hand across her mouth to stop herself. Jean, get a hold of yourself. She took a second to catch her breath and calm herself. An owl hooted in the distance. She squinted in the direction of the old willow tree where she'd first kissed Christopher, but couldn't see anything except its half-naked branches silhouetted by moonlight. She shivered again.

"It's nothing," she said out loud. "Stop being such a silly girl."

She exhaled and straightened her shoulders with a little shake of her head and kept walking. She could see the building now, looming large and black ahead of her. The doors were still closed, she'd sort of hoped they'd be open and she'd see a light that she could just run toward, but of course, her mother might see something from her window. It made sense that they were closed.

She kept on and soon reached the heavy door. She knocked on it, "Christopher?" she called.

Why was she knocking? Obviously, he was in there. She just wanted to hear his voice before she pulled the door open, but the waiting was making her heart beat even faster. She grabbed the big handle and tugged, wondering what she'd see. Candles maybe? A picnic blanket?

The door yielded and she called his name again as she carefully stepped inside.

A hand grabbed her waist and pulled her off her feet. She screamed as she was lifted through the darkness and pulled into someone.

"Jean, shhh! You're the one who wants us to be quiet!"

It was Christopher. She exhaled.

"You scared me," she said.

He laughed. "I was just so happy to see you! You kept me waiting long enough."

"I needed Mother to go to bed," Jean said, still breathing hard from the adrenaline running through her body, but a grin spread across her face at the sight of him.

"You're not mad, are you?" He asked. He had no candles here, but she could see his rakish smile by the light of the moon.

"No, no I'm not mad," Jean said. It was her own fault she was so nervous. "So, what's the big surprise?" she asked.

"I'm so glad you asked," he said. He slid his hands down to her hips, pulled her closer still in the shadows of her family barn, and kissed her.


	6. Chapter 6

Lucien had a very good understanding of the things he was very good at.

Knowledge. He had graduated from medical school after all and was a skilled diagnostician.

Understanding. He could understand another person's grief and trauma almost to a fault. He could imagine how it might drive them and of what they were capable.

Focus. He was about what he was about. He could and did shut down entire pieces of his being to get a job done, or to simply survive. He'd been doing that for seventeen years. Just work. Don't think. Don't feel, at least not any of your own feelings. He was quite good at that.

But the feeling of Jean pressing herself into a kiss was a hard thing not to focus on. The knowledge that she was at home waiting for him was hard to dismiss. The understanding that he had absolutely no idea what to do about it did not escape him for a moment. Would she want him to kiss her when he came home? Would she be embarrassed by it and want it forgotten? How could he grasp the mind of a killer and be utterly baffled by that woman's every choice?

So, he did what he'd always done. He worked. All night, he worked, focusing on his job as he'd always done, as he should do. A woman was missing, after all, and in grave danger. A child needed her mother. He would think about Jean later. When afternoon gave way to evening he reasoned Jean never expected him to come home for dinner anyway, and when evening slid into night, well, it would be too late to call.

Because what would he say. "I'll be late, darling, don't wait up." Or "Please don't worry, I'll be home by morning."

Damn. Yes, that's exactly what he should have said. Either of those would have done perfectly well. And that's almost exactly what he might have said a month ago before either of them admitted that this was real.

But he'd said neither, because every time the thought floated toward his mind he pushed it aside.

So he didn't go home last night.

And he didn't call.

Morning was well established as his car pulled up the gravel drive. The crunch of his tires anounced his arrival as his stomach sank within him like it never did when he faced danger. This woman had him completely undone.

He glanced toward the front of the house and saw no one. Perhaps she was busy, not thinking of him at all. He'd just be about his business. He exited the car, tugged on his vest and reminded himself he was a grown man before striding to the door, with just a glance around the corner to see if Jean was in the garden.

But his hand paused on the knob. Should he knock? That was just silly, it was his house. What was wrong with him? If she was angry he'd simply apologize and explain. There was a kidnapping after all.

He pushed the door open with decisive force and moved quickly into the surgery, straight for the cupboards searching for the drug he needed, though he couldn't remember now what it was or where he kept it. He couldn't think of much of anything except Jean and that was not how his mind typically worked. Just push it aside. Where was that bloody bottle?

"Lucien, is that you?"

She was home.

"Sorry Jean, I'm just passing through!"

She probably went to bed early. Didn't even notice his absence.

"You didn't come home last night."

Well then.

"No, um," he looked at the cupboard and couldn't remember what he was looking for anymore. Had he just come home to see Jean after all? "Honestly, I should have called you. It's just this kidnapping business."

Surely she would accept that.

"Yes, I've seen the papers," she said, and began reading from it.

She didn't seem angry. Should she have been? Should he have called. He was going to lose his mind if he didn't marry Jean Beazley and sort these things out once and for all. But he couldn't ask her now, not with everything going on. One thing at a time.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

And he remembered. "Prednazone."

She held out a shirt. "I thought you might need this."

"Oh, I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Well, neither do I, but you'd be doing it wearing yesterday's shirt."

Who was this woman? Always prepared, never surprised, even by him. Never faltering. He looked at her, really looked at her soft hair and her eyes, sometimes grey, sometimes startlingly green. How did she become so incredibly strong, strong enough to handle him. He took a half step forward. He didn't know what he intended, he just needed to be that much closer to her.

"Where does the Courier get that kind of detail?" She was asking about the case and he'd lost the thread. But she had said something. Oh Jean, always saying just the right thing.

"Phone box," Lucien said.

"We've got a phone."

He would handle this later. He had very important work to do. People to save, and Jean gave him the key as she always did. But tonight, tonight he would finally set this right.

Lucien hesitated as he got out of the car for the second time today. She took the late night in stride, but surely Jean would have something to say about the blood coming out the back of his head. But she simply whisked him into the surgery and cleaned it up without any fuss. He sat back and let her work feeling like everything he wanted, this case, this woman, was just beyond his grasp.

"I nearly had her, Jean, I very nearly had her."

"You're doing the best you can," Jean said, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. He felt that more acutely than the still open wound at the base of his skull. He reached up to grab her hand, but it had already slipped off his shoulder as she drifted out of the room.

He leaned forward and the wound throbbed. Ah, he would need something for that. He opened his desk drawer and found the pills he was after. But just beyond them lay the small, black box that held such expansive hope. He couldn't help withdrawing it, opening it, staring at it. He stroked the cool, precious metal and then the swell of emotion turned to movement before he knew why or what its purpose was and he strode out the door of his surgery into the kitchen, looking for Jean.

She was at the sink, with her back to him. And he hesitated. What had he meant to say? He just stood there with his mouth hanging open looking like a fool when she turned around. She cocked her head, surprised, but smiling.

"Are you bleeding again?" she asked.

"No, I uh." And then he knew why he went after her. The memory of yesterday's kiss echoed through his body even if he'd kept it from his conscious mind. It broke through all his holds just now. He reached for Jean before he considered the wisdom of it.

She took a step forward, closing the distance, comfortable between his arms, smiling in a curious, questioning way. How could she be so perfectly calm and certain while he struggled to form complete sentences. She was an astounding woman.

"Jean, I…" he brushed her hair from her cheek and noted, not for the first time, how her entire face fit within his hand. Bloody hell what was he going to say. "Jean…" He was trying to say something significant which seemed to require more than just repeating _Jean_ and he certainly wasn't going to call her Mrs. Beazley. "I don't even know your middle name."

"That's the burning question on your mind, is it?" she said.

He shrugged. He was making a muddle of things.

"It's Mary," she said, her hands slipping around his back, pulling him closer.

"Jean Mary Beazley," he tried out.

"Yes, but I don't care for it, so don't start getting any ideas."

He relaxed into their familiar banter as he pulled her even closer.

"Yes, I can see why. Something as exotic as Mary must have caused you some grief."

"I'm just saying, if you're looking for a term of endearment, look elsewhere," she said.

 _All I want to call you is Mrs. Blake._

He didn't say that, though it was so close to escaping his lips he stuttered and leaned in to kiss her neck to cover it up.

"I'll think of something," he whispered in her ear as she bent into him.

"I'm sure you will," she said softly. She slipped her hand along his jaw sliding her fingers up toward his neck then back down, carefully avoiding his injury, he realized. He was sorry for that, briefly, imagining her taking his head and bending him down to a kiss. But before he could mind too much she drew her fingers across his lips and all else was forgotten. He bent his head toward hers.

The phone rang.

Bloody hell.

But Jean didn't jump back immediately. She left her fingers there, on his parted lips, and she whispered. "You have things to do."

"Yes," he said.

"Best go do them. We can talk this evening. Just stay safe." She raised her eyebrows pointedly, "No more blows to the head."

'Yes, I promise" he said again. "I, uh, I do have something I need to talk to you about, this evening."

She smiled in that way of hers that was both certain and playful. She knew what he was about and he was glad of it. There wouldn't be any surprises tonight, then, just the question, and the ring, and the knowing they would have each other. He took one last long look at her as she went to answer the phone. He would do anything for that woman, slay any beast, take any chance. For her he would even stop taking chances. Be safe. He'd do whatever he could to protect her future, even protect himself, though he was so terribly out of practice. But for Jean, well, one would do anything for Jean.


	7. Chapter 7

1934 Ballarat

Jean sat on her bed in her white cotton nightgown with her knees drawn up to her chest. She had been in much the same position since the early morning hour she came home. But though she had not moved, the sun had still risen, gradually lightening the sky. And the house had risen as well. Her mother was downstairs, starting breakfast without her. She knew by the scent of coffee wafting up the stairwell. She had always loved the smell of coffee in the morning, even as a very young girl. She used to ask her mother for a taste, every morning, and every morning her mother would tell her she was too young, she wasn't ready for it yet. Until one morning, her mother must have been tired of her asking and just poured her a cup and set it in front of her. The steam rose up in swirls and young Jean sat in awe watching it twirl and dance as it dissipated into the cool morning air.

"Well don't just stare at it, take a drink if you want it so much," her mother said while she readied the eggs.

So, Jean did. She lifted the cup gingerly to her mouth and took a careful first sip, ready to be ushered into this adult world of coffee drinking and who knew what else came with it. But as she drank, her face contorted against her will. She tried to recover herself, but her mother had seen.

"Don't care for it do you?"

Her mother bent down and whisked the cup away, replacing it with a glass of milk, and a plate of eggs.

"Why doesn't it taste like it smells?"

"It does. Coffee tastes exactly like it smells when you're ready to appreciate it. But you have to be a good girl and not greedy about it," her mother gestured at her with a fork, "like I've been telling you."

Her father winked at her and said, "Just needs a bit of cream and sugar. You'll get there, dear. But your mum's right. Give it a year or two."

She smiled gratefully at her father, but couldn't help feeling like a bit of a failure. Why hadn't she been able to taste the coffee the way everyone else did? Her mother loved it so much. And it smelled so good. There must be something wrong with her.

Christopher had not proposed to her. He hadn't even really set up anything all that wonderful in the barn. It hadn't quite been candles and a beautiful picnic, but there had been blankets and a lantern, and a few things to eat he'd taken from their kitchen. She felt bad feeling disappointed. She hadn't wanted him to notice. He looked so hopeful as he pulled her into him, as he kissed her and ran his finger down her arm. He loved how strong her arms were, he said, and she'd blushed, thankful the lantern didn't throw much light. She'd been glad. They had all night, he said, and she didn't say no. She wanted an adventure and wasn't this going to be it? She liked the way he touched her and she liked the words he said and she liked feeling like he saw her.

Everything all felt so good until it just didn't. Was something wrong with her? What had she done wrong?

"Jean, you're going to be late!" her mother shouted up the stairs. It was Tuesday and she cleaned Mrs. Stevenson's house on Tuesdays. And she was usually downstairs hours ago helping her mother. She dragged herself off the bed and pulled on her clothes. She didn't bother checking her hair, or washing her face. She was cleaning house today anyway.

"Jean, are you alright?" her mother asked as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

"Just a little tired today."

"Don't forget you have…"

"The Stevenson's, yes, I know." Jean kept her eyes on her coffee cup. She couldn't look at her mother.

"Do you want some breakfast?"

"No, I don't feel that well."

Jean took a long sip of coffee, then took the pan from her mother and finished cleaning it without making eye contact. "You eat. I'll finish up," Jean said.

But a knock came at the door, and her mother left the plate to go answer. Jean felt a twinge of worry but pushed it aside. It was probably just… No. She heard his voice.

"Well, Christopher Beazley, what a lovely surprise this morning," Jean's mother said.

Jean stopped scrubbing the pan. She set it carefully in the sink. She picked her cup of coffee back up and took another long, deep sip, then refilled the cup.

"Jean, look who's here!"

Jean sighed, she went to the part of the kitchen that looked into their parlor with a view of the front door. "Morning, Christopher," she said with a simple smile.

"Good morning, Jean," he said, nodding his head. She felt like it was a knowing look and she didn't like it, but she was probably reading in.

"Would you like some breakfast, Christopher? We have extra," her mother said, meaning what Jean didn't eat, she assumed.

"Oh, thank you," he said, coming all the way into the kitchen.

Jean watched him walk toward her. She let her eyes travel along his long, thin legs. She raised her eyes to his lean torso that she'd recently noted had a patches of dark hair that didn't fully meet on his chest. And the she met his eyes, deep brown, and set under thick black brows. Had his brows always been so dark?

"Well, get him a plate, Jean," her mother said, with a nudge.

Jean smiled quickly and handed him what had been meant for her.

"Would you like a drink?" her mother asked.

"Sure, I'll have some coffee if it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all," her mother said, widening her eyes at Jean to prompt movement.

Mechanically, Jean poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of Christopher.

"I really do need to move along," Jean said to no one in particular. Then, looking at Christopher, "I have work this morning."

"Right, the Stevenson's. I'll drive you."

"No don't. I enjoy the walk and you've just started your breakfast."

Jean headed for the door, not waiting for a reply.

"Really, it's no problem," Christopher said, "It's why I came by."

"That's so nice of you!" Jean's mother said. But Jean was firm in her refusal and took herself out the front door. She stopped on the front porch having closed the door behind her. She took a breath. Then another. And when the door opened she regretted that she hadn't quickened her step instead and gone a good ways down the country road.

"Jean," her mother said harshly, "you were very rude to Christopher in there. You should at least give him a nice smile for coming to see about you."

Jean sighed in relief. Her mother she could handle.

"Trust me. I've given Christopher plenty. He'll be fine." And she started down that road.

Jean was very competent at cleaning. She had been trained young and worked hard. But it took her a bit longer today. Usually her mind was on efficiency. It made her happy to find ways to do things just a little bit better and just a little bit faster. But today she moved slowly. Her thoughts were elsewhere. They kept slipping out of Ballarat entirely.

She had read about all sorts of places in school. As she rubbed polish into the banister here she wondered if banister's in London looked significantly different. Would they be made out of different wood? Would one clean them differently? What did eggs taste like in Spain or coffee in Paris? How could she possibly have thought she would find adventure here? Coffee didn't taste any different after being with Christopher. It was just Ballarat coffee, and it tasted a bit burnt this morning.

She would have to go to her priest, she knew it. She'd have to confess but oh she didn't want to. She didn't want to confess even to herself what she'd done. She had known better – that was the hard part. It's just that kissing him had felt so good and she thought maybe she deserved this good thing. But the rest… hadn't felt like kissing. Maybe she just wasn't ready. Maybe this was what sin felt like. She'd been greedy after all.

Jean was just gathering up the last of her supplies when Mrs. Stevenson came home with her shopping.

"Still here, Jean?"

"Yes, sorry, just getting out of your way."

"Oh that's just fine. It looks beautiful as always. Can I take you home?"

"Thank you, but I was going to stop by the school today before going home. I thought I'd just walk to the tram stop."

"I'm going that way to pick up Lily. Let me take you, and here, have a bite to eat, you look faint."

And so Mrs. Stevenson with her kind grey eyes fixed Jean a sandwich and bundled her into the car. Jean had been starving but hadn't realized it till she took the first bite. Or maybe it was when she'd first settled on her plan. She listened to Mrs. Stevenson discuss some of the more interesting town gossip with less interest than usual. She found it hard not to sympathize with those who had made a misstep. Well, except for Patrick Tyneman. Jean hadn't sunk that low. She thanked Mrs. Stevenson when they reached the school and exited the car, feeling bolstered by the food and her own decision. But she paused on the sidewalk.

The school stood in front of her, and the church behind her.

"What is it you need to do at school, dear? I thought you'd finished?" Mrs. Stevenson called out the window.

"Oh, I've graduated," Jean said, "But I haven't finished."

At that, Jean strode confidently toward the double doors of the secondary school. She flipped the collar of her jacket and held her head high as the other girls looked at her. Why was she here? She could feel them thinking, but no matter. She knew what she as about. It was lunch time and class would be out. This wouldn't take long.

Mr. Thomas's classroom was down the first hallway and to the right. She hesitated for just one more moment with her hand on the knob, then pushed her way in. It was strange being back in this room. It was so familiar, and still so foreign. It had become a place she didn't belong, just like Ballarat.

"Miss Randall, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Mr. Thomas stood just inside the door with his glasses perched on his small nose and his sweater vest snug on his thin frame.

"You'd mentioned helping me find a way to take classes," she said. It tumbled out, quick and direct. She was afraid she wouldn't say it at all if she took time for pleasantries.

"Yes, but I thought. Forgive me, I thought you weren't interested. Was I wrong?"

"I...," she paused, thinking about how to put it. She was always interested. "I just needed a little time to be ready," Jean said at last.

He nodded, his thinned hair slicked flat against his head, but his eyes danced with possibilities for his favorite student, and she felt hers do the same. "We all need time now and again to take hold of what life has for us, Miss Randall. I'm glad you see what might be. Were you still thinking of classes at the tertiary here in Ballarat?"

Jean slowly shook her head. "No, I was hoping to go, well, I don't know. There's just so much to see."

"There is indeed," he said. "Come, and let's plan your future adventure."

 _Forgive me, Father._ She followed Mr. Thomas to his desk to talk about what dreams may be. _Forgive me, Mother._ She would go to the church next, to speak of the past. For now, she wanted to speak of the future.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

 _It felt like the longest day, perhaps because I hadn't slept the night before. The case was unsettling, to be sure, but so was knowing Lucien was out there working it on no sleep and little food. He'd done it before, but somehow that night everything felt more urgent. I suppose, had things turned out the way we'd hoped a long day, punctuated as planned, would have been lovely. But thinking back on it, it's really just exhausting. It's hard to believe that all the events of that day were contained in twenty-four hours._

Jean had sent him on his way, as she knew she must and as she was accustomed to doing. But she quickly found her thoughts went with him. She tried to busy herself with her tasks but when she found herself trimming a plant within an inch of its life she retreated to the sitting room where at least the bookshelf would survive a third dusting. She was getting nothing done and even that she was getting done slowly. She hated feeling useless. If she was going to worry about Lucien's health she may as well see to it herself.

She went into the kitchen and put together a lunch faster than she could talk herself out of it. She'd make enough for Frank and Bill and Charlie as well. It would just be a kind thing to do. They wouldn't mind. They'd raise an eyebrow, perhaps, comment behind closed doors, but they wouldn't mind.

Oh, just stop thinking, Jean, and get in the bloody car. Fortunately, Charlie had taken Lucien in and left his new, mercifully reliable car for this particular errand.

She strode into the police station girded with her basket of food and the confidence that comes from not allowing yourself to think too deeply about your actions. She obviously interrupted some discussion of the case as she entered. Frank was instructing Bill to check every shed when he noticed her.

"Mrs. Beazley, the doctor is still on his way."

She had, of course, noticed his absence.

"I know, I thought you might all be hungry."

"Very thoughtful of you," Frank said, though he looked a touch uncomfortable. No matter. Men loved food. She would just unpack the basket. It wasn't just Lucien on her mind, though, the very idea of a woman being held against her will somewhere, well, it was hard to shake. To feel so powerless is gutting. So much spins out of our control when we have both hands available to us, but this woman was bound somewhere, waiting for her world to slip away from her. And with a child to care for. Jean shook it off, brought her attention back to the station.

"Has anyone called?" she asked.

"No, uh, not the call we were hoping for," Frank said.

"Poor woman," Jean said. "Kept me awake at night thinking about it." She paused. It wasn't the only thing she was thinking about last night but it had been a piece of it. And her mind had worked. There was something she hadn't had a chance to tell Lucien that had been troubling her. "Did Mr. Chapman buy the lottery ticket himself?"

"Um, as far as we know, yes."

"It's just that when I bought my ticket, most of the customers were women," Jean offered. "The ladies were all talking about it. Though it's probably nothing." It wasn't nothing, she knew. But she also knew Frank Carlyle was not Lucien Blake and she couldn't insert herself into the investigation quite as boldly as she'd do with a more confident man.

"No, it's actually a very good question," Frank said. He sent Bill to look into it just as Lucien entered the room. She felt him before she saw him. Her heart leapt toward the door and she both chided herself for feeling like a school girl and enjoyed every moment of it. She caught his eye and saw surprise, perhaps, and a moment's hesitation before showing Frank Carlyle what he'd found in the dead man's gloves.

Jean couldn't help but glance at them herself, but of course she knew what they were. Just then, Bill returned with word that indeed the ticket had been bought by Mrs. Chapman. Of course, it had. The men all turned to her like she were some sort of witch. It only takes paying attention, she wanted to say. Not to the clues, necessarily, but to people, and details. She found men often so caught up in their own stories they missed what was right in front of them. Just like now.

"These little buggers are driving me mad," Lucien said, a bit of exasperation in his voice.

Jean moved closer, peered over his shoulder. "I think I know what they are."

She had all of their attention and found she quite enjoyed their astonishment. And she very much enjoyed that her mind was so well suited to this sort of work. But more than that, today, she would just like this case solved and off Lucien's mind. They had things to talk about, she was quite sure. 

Today seemed like a perfectly good day to wash and dry all the linens in the house. It actually was not the day she did this at all, but it would be something to do while she tried to keep her mind off the fact that Lucien rushed right back out without eating a thing. He was grown. He managed to survive the war without her, surely he'd survive this case. But once you grasp something… once you realize you want something and want never to let it go, don't you start thinking of all the ways it could be taken from you?

She'd just find another set of sheets to wash. Surely, they needed it. And standing out in the sunshine would do her good.

Ah, but there was the crunch of gravel, and the thud of the car door she'd listened so intently for last night but had never come. She smiled to herself as the welcome footsteps approached. She kept on with her task. She'd let him find her.

"Jean!" he called out. She could feel her smile taking over her face. She'd just take one more minute to fasten this sheet while she got control of herself.

"Jean!" He called again.

"Lucien, I've saved some lunch for you!" She dried her hands on her apron. Their warmth might betray just how quickly her heart beat when she heard his voice.

"Lovely," he said. And, yes, he was. But he held his arm out in a gesture as though he had something to show her. Something small. And around the corner came a quiet little girl in long braids and short socks. Jean knew who this girl must be and her face darkened at the thought of what this small child was suffering.

"Is there enough for two?"

"Well, of course there is," Jean said and then she smiled on the girl with all the warmth that emanated from her like the bright Australian sun.

"Come with me and we'll find you both something to eat," Jean said, extending her hand to the small girl who shyly took it as Jean walked past. Jean gave Lucien a look that asked for an explanation and he inhaled in a way she knew well. He'd explain shortly.

"Why don't you wash up in here," Jean pointed toward the bathroom, and I'll fix a sandwich.

The girl did as she was told and Jean looked over her shoulder at Lucien as he began helping her with the food.

"You sit. You've had no sleep and nothing to eat and I won't have you slicing off a finger with any of my knives." Jean gestured, a particularly sharp looking one in her hand.

Lucien, too, did what he was told.

"Rose brought Elizabeth to the station," he said. "No one was looking after her."

"Oh, that poor girl. Who could just abandon a child?" Jean asked.

"I thought you'd be the best to… well, no one takes care of people like you do. And she needs the best." Lucien held Jean's eyes in a gaze that made her hands weaken as she set a plate in front of him. She had no idea how to respond to that. He was always better with words than she was. But she did lay her hands on his shoulders and lean in to leave a lingering kiss on his forehead. Her hands moved of their own accord as they slipped up his neck and along his soft beard and rough skin. His heart beat beneath her fingers and she thanked God for the life it stood for and the man in front of her. She left her lips on his warm skin long enough to feel the texture of him, to breathe him in, to be sure of him for that moment. As she pulled back, already regretting the separation, Lucien cleared his throat and indicated the doorway. There stood young Elizabeth, just watching.

Jean recovered herself with a swing of her shoulders but felt a strong need to leave the room.

"Let's find a nice cheery place to have your lunch," Jean said. She carried the plate to Elizabeth who followed her dutifully back to the sunroom.

Jean gave the girl some space to eat, and herself a chance to shake off the moment's embarrassment turning to the plants around her that needed tending. Finally, she turned around and looked at the girl. Children should be worried about learning and playing and growing into people. Their innocence should be protected by the adults around them or their dreams, well, they learn not to dream.

So much hung in the balance for this girl. And Lucien was the one who would make it right, she knew he would. Her heart was torn between deep pity and soaring pride. She wished she could make Elizabeth's world right, herself, but all she could do was feed her, and watch her, and let Lucien do his job. Elizabeth's eyes were downcast. Her sandwich barely touched.

"Not very hungry?" Jean asked.

"No," Elizabeth had a disarming, lilting voice. "But that was lovely." She looked into Jean's face. "Thank you, Mrs. Blake."

"You're very welcome. You've got lovely manners." After all, how was dear Elizabeth to know they weren't married after what she saw in the kitchen. Still, it needed to be corrected. "And I'm Mrs. Beazley. The doctor and I aren't married." The words tumbled out quickly, almost as if she'd rather not say them.

"Why not?"

"Well," Jean found herself looking around for help but of course none was to come. She crouched down and met Elizabeth's eyes. She deserved a serious answer. "We used to be married to other people, and now we live together so I can help him with his work."

"Do you love him?" 

Lucien sat in his surgery, poring over the details of the case. The arrival of the little girl only intensified his desire to find her mother. Murder was one thing. It was an event over and done. The killer had already, at that point, done the damage he or she was going to do. And it was up to Lucien and, he supposed, the police force to bring justice for the victims, to protect the rest of society. But this… this damage had not yet been done. This girl's future hinged on his ability to find the patterns, sort it out, and something about the crime still being in the realm of the not yet made it that much worse. Who could orphan a little girl? How could he allow it? He trained his mind back to the problem at hand when he heard Jean walking with Elizabeth back to the house, past his window.

"Do you love him?" Elizabeth asked.

And for all of Lucien's dedication and intensity of focus he would think of nothing, hear nothing, be nothing, till he heard an answer. Did she love him? It was the question ever present on his mind. She seemed to. She acted like it, he thought, perhaps. She seemed glad of him in Adelaide. She touched him like she cared, but she'd said nothing. Nothing. He knew she wasn't given to outpouring of emotion but surely she'd have said something. Hadn't he made himself clear? Or had he? He held the ring box, still. He reached for it every time he entered this room, now. It held every hope for his future. He thought tonight he'd have his answer, but now, he couldn't even think about tonight. Everything rested on Jean's response to an impertinent question from a scared little girl.

A knock sounded at the front door. "I'll get it!" Lucien yelled quickly, hoping Jean wouldn't be interrupted.

"I think perhaps we should clean up these dishes." Jean's voice wafted along the warm air, through his open window. _Bloody hell._ He sighed. Well, there was always tonight. She'd say yes, or she wouldn't. Surely, she'd say yes. But oh, he was such a mess of a man. She'd be well within her rights to say no. It would be the wise choice, and Jean was a wise woman.

He stood up. He'd answer the door. He shouldn't be listening at windows, anyway. But as he did, he could see her through the shutters, just now passing.

"Elizabeth," Jean said. She turned, tenderly toward the girl. Being with Jean was like standing in sunlight. That little girl must surely feel warmed by her. He'd done the right thing bringing her home. "I think you're a girl who notices things, aren't you?"

"Mm, hmm" Elizabeth said.

"I think you know the answer to your question."

"You love him," she said.

"Yes," Jean said, "I love him very much."

The knock came again and Lucien tripped over his chair on the way to the door catching himself on his desk with a thud. Jean would hear that. He didn't slow down, though. He couldn't, really, his heart beat too fast with the words he'd given up on, but so longed for. He feared Jean would hear him and know he'd heard her. But wondered also if she hadn't timed her response just so. At any rate, she'd said it. And he knew it. And for this moment, his heart felt unable to be contained in even his expansive chest. He would do anything to right that little girl's world and set his to right as well. Thank God for small children.


	9. Chapter 9

"You've got a letter," Esther said, as she stood in front of their small oval mirror, tying the scarf that went with her uniform.

"Already?" Mattie said. "I've only just got here. Who's had time to send me anything?"

"I guess he just really likes you?" Esther teased as she smoothed back her blonde ponytail and turned away from the mirror. She gestured to the side table just inside the door of their small flat. And although Mattie's new flatmate was just having a bit of fun, Mattie did feel her stomach do just the slightest flip, betraying the worldly confidence she assumed came with moving halfway around the world on her own. _Calm down, Mattie_ , she told herself. It was probably from her mother, anyway.

But when Mattie glanced at the table, she saw there on the tray an airmail letter from an address she recognized.

"Just an old friend," Mattie said. "Thank you very much!"

Esther shrugged and grabbed her keys. "I'll see you tonight," she said. She moved for the door but before she passed through entirely she shot back, "But I don't think your cheeks would blush like that if it were just from an old friend!"

Mattie waited for Esther to shut the door behind her before she tore the letter open. She sank into one of their two chairs to read it.

"Dear Mattie,

I'm guessing this didn't actually beat you to London, but hopefully you weren't waiting for it long. Sometimes I talk a better game than I can actually deliver on. But you already know that better than anyone and would be the last one to let me forget it.

I'm glad you came by the station before you left the country. You're having such a big adventure, but you and I are maybe the only ones who know how hard it is to leave Ballarat. Well, not Ballarat exactly but no one makes breakfast like Jean, do they? It's more than that, I know. Jean was my mum and dad both for a long while after the war. I'm hoping she can keep the Doc in line for us while we're gone. She seems up to it, honestly.

I don't actually have much to say except that it was really great to see you and I promise to keep you up to date on all the news from home if you write me back. And I guess I wanted to be the first to say "Welcome Home" to your new home.

All best, Danny"

Well.

Mattie felt the tears threatening now at thoughts of home. She was so ready for this, she didn't know why she was so emotional about it all. She'd moved in just days ago and been on her new job long enough to realize she wasn't a country district nurse anymore. There was a lot to learn and no kind doctor to take her under his wing. But she could do it. She would do it.

She read the letter again, because it sounded just like Danny and it felt like home.

Mattie hadn't even known what she was doing that day. When that cab pulled out of Lucien's driveway the tears just wouldn't stop. This move was absolutely what she wanted to do, but she'd really only thought about the adventure, not the leaving, till the last actual minute. And then Lucien's face. She knew it so well. He thought she'd be a train ride away and when she'd no, she was going to London, the stark sadness in his eyes was just absolutely clear. He covered it quickly and was happy for her, and of course she couldn't stay with him and Jean forever. No one thought she would. But even though you dream of what else life will hold and even take steps to make it happen, you never think of the actual moment when it changes. When your present becomes the past and your dreams become your life. Those changes hinge on one exhilarating, gut-wrenching moment, and usually those moments contain a goodbye. Saying goodbye was not something Mattie was good at.

So she cried, and she absolutely couldn't show up at her parents' with a tear-stained face. Her mother would insist she wasn't ready and shouldn't go. She was a hair's breadth away from doing that anyway. So she told the driver to take her to the Melbourne police headquarters first, and to please wait. If anyone would understand how hard it was to leave Ballarat, it was Danny Parks.

She just hoped he'd be there, until she actually pulled the door open and then she hoped he wouldn't. What would he think seeing her show up unexpectedly and such a mess? He'd tease her endlessly, probably.

But he was there. He rose up from a desk when he saw her. His face first confused, then glad, then concerned as he crossed the room and closed the distance between them.

"Mattie, are you all right?" he asked, knitting his brow together and seeming to examine her for injury.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. It's just…" she choked up even then.

"C'mon outside. Let's get some fresh air." Danny waved to someone and indicated he was taking the poor mess of a girl with him. She assumed that's how she looked. And then stepped out onto the street she'd come in from. The taxi idled nearby and she held up a finger. She wasn't quite ready.

"Hi Danny," she said, pulling herself up straight and giving him the closest thing to one of her old smiles as she could manage.

"This is a surprise," Danny said.

"I know it's just. Well, I'm leaving town and I wanted to say goodbye."

"Not living with the Doc anymore? Are you moving back to Melbourne?"

"No, no, I got a job in London and I just moved all my things out. They're still just there," she indicated the waiting car. "I'm going to stay with my parents a couple of days before leaving."

"Oh," Danny said, his concern melting into an understanding smile. "It's not easy leaving, is it?"

Mattie shook her head, "No, it's… I thought I'd be fine. Talking to Jean went well but…"

"You always were his favorite."

Mattie put a hand to her face to keep the tears from coming again, and then a thought occurred to her and she started to smile. "Well," she said, "after Jean."

"Are they? Really? Finally!"

"Yes!" Mattie felt a hint of guilt for gossiping about them but their relationship wasn't something they could hide for long. Most of Ballarat assumed it at this point, anyway. She was surprised Danny didn't.

"Oh, good for them!"

"You don't mind? Because…"

"No, no, Uncle Christopher's been gone for years. And Auntie Jean had a hard time of it for so long. I mean, I grew up with Jack and Christopher and they didn't make it any easier on her. No, she deserves every good thing. And I think the Doc is a good thing – mostly." Danny had a twinkle in his eye and Mattie knew he was teasing but she nudged his arm anyway.

"He is," Mattie insisted. "And I really think he loves her so much."

"Well, who wouldn't," Danny said. "So," he raised his eyebrows and rocked back on his heels as he often did. It made his very long, lean body look even longer and leaner and Mattie looked away so she wouldn't notice quite so much. "London?"

"It's a good job," Mattie said, "At a hospital where Lucien used to work and…" she felt the light come back into her eyes.

"And you'll have an adventure," Danny said. "You always were good at helping the Doc with his… mischief."

"Cases!"

"He always meant well," Danny said.

"And solved the crimes."

"He did. He does, I assume. Just not conventionally or with much thought to how hard he makes it on those around him. But it'll be harder without you."

"I think he'll still have some help," Mattie said, thinking of Jean again. She'd miss sitting at that kitchen table listening to them work out the clues while they bantered. But, finally, she was starting to see more of the future than the past. She felt her life begin to shift under her feet. Already Ballarat was a place she used to live. And Lucien and Jean were people she would always love like family, but part of a former time. Mattie was moving on. And it still hurt, but also felt a little good.

"Thanks, Danny," Mattie said, truly meaning it.

"Hey, give me your address. I want you to have a letter waiting for you."

"I don't think they get there that fast," Mattie said.

"You always did think you were smarter."

Mattie rolled her eyes reprovingly but did not disagree. She dashed off her address on the official notepad he carried with him to take witness statements and handed it back to him. He took her hand along with the address and in that moment he wasn't her annoying almost-brother, but the man who took her hand and asked her to dance in a peach bridesmaid's dress in the Blake living room. The man who had made her feel truly beautiful on a truly difficult day. She needed to get in that cab before that memory showed on her face. Though, judging from Danny's smile, it may already be too late.

Mattie finished reading the letter a third time before she got up and found some stationary of her own.

"Dear Danny,

Your letter very nearly beat me here, but of course, they don't travel that fast. I guess I still am smarter than you.

But still, thank you so much for sending it. It feels like home. I will promise to write if you will promise to tell me how Lucien and Jean are doing. I imagine all good things for them, but I'd feel better knowing for sure.

And of course, I wouldn't mind hearing how you're doing as well –"

Mattie hesitated with the ending. She signed most things "with love," but would that send the wrong message? Was it the wrong message?

Oh hang it all, she was thinking about this far too much. She signed off as she usually did because that was simply how she did things. It didn't necessarily mean anything. Not necessarily.

"With love,

Mattie"


	10. Chapter 10

_Mattie, dreams change as we grow. I'm sure you've wondered at mine from time to time though you were mostly to gracious to say so. I know you thought I should hope more, and I know how much you liked the idea of myself and Doctor Blake. But dreams are just dreams, for most of us. I'm alright. I'll adjust. I always do._

 _Ballarat 1934 - Spring_

Once when Jean Mary Randall was ten years old she sneaked out of her bedroom after dark. She saw the moon from her the window over her bed. It didn't so much rise tonight as it did hang, huge and round and yellow in the deep dark of a country night sky. It seemed to beckon her. She lay there, thinking, for a good long while. She thought about how her mother expected her to be a good girl and stay in bed and she thought about how her father would punish her if she disobeyed her mother. She thought about how her brother could catch her as he was often up late reading his textbooks. But none of those thoughts overcame the siren call of the moon's strangely warm glow. What must the fields look like lit up by that strange celestial body? And so she slipped out from under her quilt. Her white cotton nightdress hung up on the sheets and she pulled it back down to her ankles when her feet landed on the hardwood. They barely creaked as she tiptoed from board to board, not bothering about shoes or sweaters or anything practical. It seemed like she floated on dreams all the way down the stairs, she was so silent and purposeful.

As she crept around the corner and their front door towered in front of her it did seem to present her first challenge. It would squeak and it would thud. It was old and the wood had swelled and contracted through so many Ballarat winters it didn't quite fit in the frame anymore. That's what her mother said every time she had to shove it extra hard. So, Jean considered the problem and decided she had three options: 1) Pull it open as carefully as possible and don't quite close it all the way. 2) Yank good and hard and hope she can out run anyone who hears it 3) Give it up and go back upstairs.

She never gave the third option a second thought. She did consider running for it and claming whatever time she could. But, truth be told, Jean was a careful girl, even when plotting a nighttime escapade. And she knew that if she ran, she'd have freedom for a moment, but the fear of the chase wouldn't be exhilarating, rather it would poison the whole trip. She wanted not just the freedom of place that she'd get when she stepped through that door, but the freedom of time as well. She wanted the whole night to belong just to her and the moon.

So, though she might risk not getting out at all, she carefully and quietly unlatched the door. The metal bolt moved with the squeak of rust and slid into place with a weighty thunk. She cringed, but no one came. Next, she twisted the handle with great care and pushed against the wooden door with her shoulder till it gave way and swung open. She eased it back into place and decided it was in her best interest to leave it not fully closed. Her heart beat quickly making her movements jerkier than she'd like but soon she was out in the cool air of a summer night, standing under the waiting moon. She ran now, silent and free as young girls are, her arms spread out to either side as if telling the moon she'd come. She ran until she stood well past the barn, all by herself in the middle of their vast field. She'd done it. She lifted her face up toward the yellow moon, but it seemed no closer than it had in her bedroom. She ran a bit farther. She knew she couldn't catch it, couldn't reach it. But surely she could get a little closer. Surely there was spectacular waiting for her out here.

But no matter how far she ran, nor how fast, the moon ran faster, farther. Until she didn't believe it was her friend at all, but some sort of evil temptress who had lured her out here with unkept promises. The sting of rejection bit her young heart.

Well, that would be the last time she'd believe in anything so foolish.

And then, she stopped looking up, and looked around, and realized she was quite far from home. She hadn't run all the way to the Beazley's – their barn was still just a black smudge in the distance, but she'd run far enough from home it seemed more a shape than a place. And now her young heart beat in her throat, for she felt herself abandoned out here in the midst of the night with no friend, and a host of foes. She knew that snakes hid in the grass and redback spiders lurked, and she knew she'd been a silly girl to think they wouldn't hurt her just because she had answered the moon's call. It wouldn't save her from anything. That run she hadn't planned to take _from_ her house she absolutely took _to_ it.

She made it to her bedroom undetected. But she scolded herself far worse than she would have been by anyone who'd found her.

"It would have served you right to get eaten by a xxx, Jean Mary Randall," she told herself. "That's what you get for believing lies. Especially when they're told by something so pretty."

She climbed back up into that bed and straightened out her nightgown and decided the splinters in her feet were a worthy punishment.

The knowledge that she was pregnant came gradually at first, like the sun setting and the night growing cold. When does it happen? At first you don't even notice, and then, suddenly the sun has sunk beyond the hills and you just know – by the darkness and the chill.

And once she did know, she didn't feel regret. She didn't feel her dreams melting into the huge Ballarat sky around her. She just knew her life would be different. Sometimes there's a steadiness in knowing.

It was the very beginning of spring now, and a yellow robin perched in the willow tree where she was meeting Christopher. She was building a nest, now, getting ready, as confident in her preparations as she was that the air would hold her up as she soared to the branch.

Jean didn't feel sadness, or regret, or grief for the dreams she could no longer hold but she did feel fear. She saw Christopher approaching, walking along the well-worn path between the farms. She saw his shape before she could make out his person, long legs striding confidently her way, and she hoped in the shape of him. He would stand by her, surely. He wouldn't let her crash through the branches. They would sort this out together, she was sure. Almost sure. And that was the most important thing, that they made this right.

Her mother had said she was easy to love, and she already knew this girl – it had to be a girl – she carried would be the hardest thing she'd ever done and the easiest thing she'd ever love.

"Do you love him?"

 _No_

"Do you love him?"

 _What is love, anyway? Is it so important? Is it better than relief, than gratitude, than reprieve? Is it better than scandal? Is it better than safety?_

"Do you love him?"

"Of course, I do, Daddy," Jean said.

Christopher hadn't asked if she loved him. Jean didn't think he really cared. But she told him anyway. "I do love you," she said. "I'd want to do this anyway."

He didn't look like he believed her, so she kissed him. He leaned in and took what she gave, hungrily. She was still so ill. But he needed her, she knew that by now. Need sat right next to love, didn't it?

The telling of it came quickly. Matter-of-factly. Sugar-coating wouldn't make this any easier. She was pregnant.

"I love you, Jean Mary," Christopher told her.

Jean smiled, and nodded.

So, then, it would be alright?

They'd get married right away, he assured her. They could stay at her farm and help her parents till they could buy their own place. Everything would be just fine.

After the relief, and the tears, and the sinking into his embrace, he repeated himself.

"I love you, Jean Mary," he said.

Maybe he did. He was awfully pretty, though.


	11. Chapter 11

Lucien poured his whiskey expertly, letting it rise to just the right level, tipping the bottle to stop it just so, not to miss a drop. It was disturbingly routine. They had just finished dinner, as they did most nights, and Jean had suggested a celebratory drink. Of course, he'd said. He poured a sherry for Jean with the same precision. She'd looked at him with such wonder, such pride he couldn't help but agree with every suggestion and follow her lead. But he knew routine was dangerous. This was a special moment, but not the special moment he intended, and if he wasn't careful, he'd get swept away and just let the night unfold as Jean assumed it would. A nice night by the fire. Maybe a stolen kiss. Maybe…

"It was lovely to see that little girl smiling again," Lucien said, bringing the drinks in and thinking he would figure out what to say next… next.

"And Judith Chapman?" Jean asked as he walked in, drinks in hand.

Jean bent over the record player as he walked in and he slowed his step, just looking. There wasn't a detail of Jean he didn't notice. It would be rude to comment though, wouldn't it? He definitely noticed the curve of her hip as she worked and he said a silent prayer it would plague her a moment longer. She fiddled with it for a moment to get it right, but straightened up all too soon.

Lucien took a moment to remember what they were talking about, and then brought himself back to the current moment. "Doing well, thankfully," he said. "I'd say she can expect to make a full recovery." He handed Jean the drink and as she took it she looked at him like he'd single-handedly saved every one of them. But of course, he'd never have done it without Jean.

"Oh, thank goodness you got to her in time."

"Well, we were lucky."

"And that little girl still has her family tonight, because of you."

Lucien extended his arm to toast Jean. He should be enjoying the praise. She looked so proud. How many days would he have given anything to see her look at him like that, to have deserved it. But now it only made his stomach drop because this was the wrong thing. This was not how tonight was supposed to go and it would be so easy to let it. He had to change course. He would. If he could foil a kidnapping and return a little girl to her mother certainly he could stop the train of conversation and go fetch a ring.

"Jean, would you mind, um, would you mind just… waiting here? Just for a moment?" He held out his hand toward her, like what, like he was telling her to stay? What was wrong with him. Just handle things and she'll not remember what came before.

Jean looked concerned as she said, "Alright." And rightfully so, he was already on the verge of mucking this up.

"Right," he said, hurrying to his surgery. He just needed the box and he would be back and he would find a way to get through the next excruciating moment. She would say yes, wouldn't she? She would be perfectly within her rights to say no, but oh, he felt like she wanted to say yes if he could just pose the question. He opened his desk drawer and withdrew the small black box. His mother's ring. He'd seen it so often as a boy. It was part of her. It was her. He brought it to his lips and kissed the cold stone. He should think of his mother, he felt. He should want her blessing, perhaps offer a prayer, but his only thoughts were for Jean, waiting in that other room, thinking who knew what. He'd spent enough time thinking of his mother. He just needed to get back to Jean. He tucked the ring in his vest pocket and returned.

She sat just in front of him.

He tugged on his vest, reassuring himself it was there. So much had brought both of them here, and now they had just one more moment to get through. But he couldn't get the words out. It was probably because she was sitting. A moment like this one needed to stand for.

"Jean, would you mind standing for me, please?"

She stood, of course, though she looked perplexed. And… oh, he still couldn't get the words out. This was all wrong. Awkward and wrong.

"Actually, do you know what, let's have a seat." He held his hand out, again, like she couldn't figure out how to sit or stand without his direction. If he could just get through this one moment, everything would be okay. He took a breath. But he had no idea how to start, what to say. Perhaps, he thought at last, the ring could say it for him.

He withdrew it from his vest pocket. He opened the small black box. And Jean's eyes went from concerned to a dawning understanding.

"Jean, this was my mother's ring."

"Lucien,"

Jean's eyes moved from the ring to Lucien's face, but she moved nothing else, like they were both caught in a spell she was afraid to break. But it was alright. They were already moving through the hardest moment. They were almost to the other side. There was just one more thing to say.

"And I would very much…"

Just get it out. Just say it.

But a knock sounded at the door. Lucien exhaled. "Ah, that's probably Charlie." Lucien set the ring down and held up a finger toward Jean whose eyes were trained back on the ring like it was a talisman she was afraid to look away from. "I'll, I'll be right back." It was truly terrible timing, but now he was breathing normally again, smiling even. It was just enough to break the tension. He'd go back in and get out the actual question. He'd go down on one knee. He'd already seen the answer in her eyes. She'd be his in moments. They'd be each others'. He just had to dispatch with Charlie, but Charlie was a good boy and he'd make himself scarce once he understood. Then he'd be on hand to celebrate. Perhaps they'd round up Rose, as well.

"Perfect timing, Charlie!" Lucien called out as he swung the door wide.

"Lucien, who is it?"

****** 

Jean fiddled with the record player but it took her a moment to get it right. She couldn't quite make her fingers work. She kept thinking of Elizabeth and how very near she'd come to heartbreak. One doesn't recover from losing a parent like that. Loss is devastating for a child. You can only hope there are good people in your life to carry you through, and even then, it's a matter of piecing yourself back together, of holding on through the pain. It's never what life could have been. Jean had her own catalogue of losses; lost dreams, lost pride, lost people. But at this moment, none of those held any pain for her. She was thankful, utterly and perhaps unaccountably thankful for whatever moments in her life had brought her to this one.

But tonight was not about her. Tonight she simply wanted to celebrate that a little girl had been saved from crippling loss. Jean couldn't help feeling pride, personal pride in that man. To have that kind of mind, and that kind of fortitude, to persevere, well, for all the pompousness he could put on, she didn't really think he knew his gifts. She wanted to make sure he knew tonight. She'd certainly pointed out when he fell short. He should know just how proud of him she was.

He walked in with their drinks and she did just that, or she tried. He seemed more distracted than usual. Typically after solving a case he seemed more at home, more present. His mind didn't have to constantly run in the background, but it seemed to still be spinning tonight and she wondered why.

"Jean, would you mind, um, would you mind just… waiting here?"

"Alright," she said. She wondered if she'd said too much, but no, Lucien was a man who could accept praise. Perhaps she'd not said enough. It was curious. She took a seat on the settee, slowly. There was nothing to do at the moment but sip her sherry and wait.

As she did her mind drifted in ways she was unaccustomed to. She tried to pull it back to the present, but it lingered on the feel of Lucien's lower lip inside her mouth – firm and soft and pushing for more. And she needed to stop remembering right now. She wasn't the kind of person who let her mind linger on those things, but, honestly, she hadn't recognized herself since Lucien came to live here. Or had she? In some ways, she felt more herself than she ever had. There would be another kiss, she decided, and soon. If he would just come back from wherever he went. She felt particularly warm and, well, it must be the sherry. She took another sip.

Lucien did return and looked just as distracted as when he'd left. Why did he want her to stand? He patted his vest like he did when he was nervous then suggested they sit. She'd never seen him so nervous. Had he finished his whiskey? Perhaps she should offer him another. She tried not to think of all the other ways she'd like to put him at ease. Maybe there were things about the case he needed to get off his mind. It had to have been unsettling.

But then he started speaking and it was not about the case.

He pulled a box out of his pocket.

A small, square box.

It couldn't be. Could it?

"Jean, this was my mother's ring."

Jean's mind couldn't quite take it all in. His mother's ring. The mother who had so captivated him he hadn't noticed Jean's leaving, nearly. The mother he loved like he'd never been able to love his father, or probably anyone. Her ring. And it had to mean… but did it?

"And I hope very much…"

It did. He was going to ask her to be his wife. He wanted her. He wanted her right now. The swell of feeling she'd experienced on the bus when he walked in was nothing compared to this moment. But it had yet to wash over her completely. The joy felt just a breath out of reach. She still waited to make sure this was real. To hear him say it, ask it.

On that bus to Adelaide all he had to do was walk in and sit down and she was his. She'd been waiting just to know he wanted her. And she hadn't loved how that felt, how vulnerable and out of control. But this was different. He was the one halting and nervous. As though he honestly weren't sure how she'd respond. How could he not be sure?

She opened her mouth and took in a breath. She'd ease his nerves right now.

But a knock came at the door and they both startled.

"That must be Charlie," Lucien said.

She was too shocked by the entire moment to stop him, but had enough of her wits about her still to know that Charlie never knocked. A shadow hung over the still waiting joy.

Lucien seemed to need this break to gather himself and catch his breath. Maybe it was for the best. The worst this could be is Matthew demanding his presence and they only had to put him off a moment. Lucien would come back with his wide smile. He'd take her hand in both of his enormous, warm hands and she'd be his. They'd be each other's.

But even then, did she know? Looking back she thought perhaps she did. Or was it just simply fear whispering in her ear that she had no right to this happiness. She who had so transgressed, who considered more transgressions even now. She was never made to be this happy.

Later, she'd wonder if it was all for the best. What happiness could compete with that moment of apprehension and anticipation as she waited for Lucien to return? Maybe nothing would have lived up to it. Regardless of what should have been or could have been Jean would have to live with what was. And somewhere deep in her heart she needed to know what was right then. So when the door opened she moved to the hallway and even then the shadow was creeping farther over her heart as she called out, asking who it was

She needn't have. She'd have recognized the shape anywhere.

Lucien held the door ajar, and a man, tall and lean and dark with the exact same posture as her Jack gazed in at her, and she answered her own question.

"It's my husband."


	12. Chapter 12

Christopher fairly staggered through the door. Lucien caught him by the elbow but then Jean ran up and took his arm, as she ought to, she supposed. She'd had a moment as she rushed to him when she thought perhaps she'd been wrong. Perhaps it would turn out to be Jack, road weary and worn, and she'd just seen his father in him. She'd be chagrined but relieved.

But no, this was Christopher Beazley, Sr. And she was not wrong, of course. She would know her husband anywhere, even after 14 years of being gone, reported dead, grieved for and let go. She would know him.

He took her arm and glanced up at her face, quickly, then away. "Jean," he said, as though to confirm.

"Ah, let's get you inside," Lucien said. He looked over Christopher's bowed head at Jean who widened her eyes back at him. _I've no idea_ she was saying to his silent question of how, why, what now?

They both got Christopher situated on the very settee they had just occupied a very different moment ago. Jean looked deeply, longingly at the seat, and if wishes could transport her back into that moment she would be answering Lucien's question right now.

But wishes are nothing but the measure by which our hearts break. She knew that well enough. The weight of the ring box, carefully stowed in the pocket of her sweater, whispered to her that she'd been a fool to think otherwise. And so she sat next to Christopher. He had the same dark hollows in his cheeks, the same deep brown eyes, but the rakish smile was gone, replaced with, well, nothing just yet. Everything about his face seemed dark and blank.

He coughed, and Jean jumped up saying she'd get him some tea.

"No, let me," Lucien said. But she didn't let him. She needed a to take one deep breath, even if it meant leaving the two of them together to stare at each other. Hadn't she allowed Lucien that just a moment ago?

She quickened her pace to the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. She set it on the stove and lit the burner, relishing the routine. This she could do. She knew how to make tea. She let herself fall into the ordinariness of the movement. But the most ordinary thing that had happened today was Lucien saving a little girl's future. Everything after that had shattered expectations. Jean found her hands trembling as she gathered cups and worried they'd slip from her grasp. She smoothed out her skirt, her sweater, trying to steady them. And she felt the ring.

She could just slip it on.

He'd nearly asked. And her answer would only have been one thing. Would she have even had words to craft an answer? She couldn't have done it as beautifully as Lucien said things. Perhaps she'd have just kissed him. Would it really be a lie if she just slipped it on now? In many ways, it would be the most truthful gesture. They'd come so close. The worst part was that she knew, somewhere deep inside. She knew this couldn't be true for her. It was too lovely, like moonlight that teases then slips away.

She chided herself as she readied the tray. No, she should be relieved she hadn't given an answer yet. How could she wish she had said yes to a marriage proposal when she was still another man's wife? And Christopher looked so ill, so tired. What was wrong with her? Hadn't she wished for years for a chance to smooth her last words? To assure him of her love? Shouldn't she get down on her knees and thank the heavens for this answer to prayer? She'd been foolish to think prayers expired like wishes.

Lucien did not remain with Christopher in the other room. He followed Jean and she jumped back when he laid his hand on her shoulder. "Jean, did you have any idea…"

"No," she cut him off. "No, I was told he was dead."

"Who told you? How did you find out?"

"Are you asking me if I misunderstood the two officers who knocked on my door?" Jean hissed. "No, no, I'm sorry." Lucien held his hands up in surrender. He could be so frustrating. She knew he wanted to understand how a man could be presumed dead for 14 years, but the answer did not lie with her. "Forgive me," he placed one hand on her far shoulder and pulled her into his chest.

He was so warm, so strong, so solid that of course, this would be alright.

She actually let her heart relax for a second before pushing back and saying, "I've got to bring tea to my husband."

Lucien looked struck. But he nodded, "yes, can we put him in Mattie's room tonight."

"It'll take time to make it up," she said.

"Then let him have mine. I'll take Mattie's. We'll all talk more in the morning."

Jean just managed a nod. Alright. Sleep would be best for everyone. She watched, numbly, as Lucien gestured for Christopher to stand, as he had done so recently with her, and escort him toward Mattie's old room. Jean felt a twinge of desire for Mattie's kind face right now but that would truly only make things worse. It would be one more face looking up to hers wondering what came next. And how did she know? But she would, wouldn't she. She'd determine what was right, and would just do that.

She squared her shoulders and followed Lucien into the room with the tea tray. She'd make Christopher comfortable for the night. That was the next right thing to do.

Lucien did not recognize the man in the doorway, but he apprehended that he was someone of importance from the countenance of the man's face. It could only be described as expectant. When strange men knocked on Lucien's door they usually looked hopeful, maybe their expression held a whisper of pleading. They wanted help, solving a case, finding a loved one, healing an ill. Sometimes they came looking angry. Lucien had a way of infuriating people that he'd long since made peace with.

But this look almost had an air of entitlement and Lucien was not at all comfortable with it. He understood it when Jean called out behind him. This man felt entitled to Jean. That didn't sit well with Lucien. She was her own, and no one else's. Not even his. Maybe especially not his.

He glanced at Jean but she was clearly as surprised by this as he was. She rushed to take Christopher's arm and Lucien felt a surge of protection rise up inside him. But her tears that day she saw their old farm came rushing back to him. This was a man she loved dearly. If this was what she wanted. How could it not be what she wanted? No, he wouldn't think of that now.

As soon as they got him settled on the sofa Jean jumped up to make tea. He watched her walk away and wanted to follow immediately but sensed she needed a moment.

"So, ah, Christopher? Christopher Beazley, is that right?" Lucien asked.

"Yes, and you're the famous Dr. Lucien Blake?" Christopher said. He tried to settle back against the settee but his long limbs seemed awkward and stiff. He leaned forward instead, elbows on his legs, and tapped his right knee.

"Don't know about famous, but you have my name correct."

"I've been looking for Jean for a while. Your name is always given with commentary," Christopher said.

"Ah," Lucien said, attempting a grin. "Well, you've found us at last. You look tired. Has it been a long journey."

"You have no idea," Christopher said. He allowed his head to drop at that last comment.

"Let me just check on your tea," Lucien said. He hurried to Jean's side. He asked if she knew, and how this could be, but of course those were the wrong words. He often had the wrong words for Jean. It was a wonder they'd come as far as they had and owing mostly to Jean's capacity to forgive, and to overlook flaws. He didn't want to think what that meant for both of them now.

He drew her to himself and felt her relax against his shoulder for the briefest of moments. But before her heartbeat could slow itself she pushed back.

"I have to take tea to my husband."

Her husband. What a thing to be her husband.

He was not at all sure the man on the settee deserved that title. And he was equally unsure what should be done about it. But they decided he needed rest and would offer up Lucien's bedroom. He'd give up anything for Jean, of course. Even Jean herself.

But as Lucien led Christopher to the room. As he found things for him to sleep in and watch Jean settle the tray on the night stand, most importantly as he watched Jean's unsteady, vulnerable smile he made a vow to himself. Something in Jean's countenance was asking this man's permission and everything within Lucien wanted to step between them and say that Jean needed no one 's permission to do anything at all. Her independence was hard won. She'd worked hard to provide for her children, heal her heart, keep Lucien from self-destructing out of her own generosity and by God she didn't need to appeal to anyone.

Lucien had given his blessing once before, hastily, and in an effort to prove he put Jean above himself, and Jean was the one who'd been hurt. Lucien would not make that mistake again.

This man had much to prove.


	13. Chapter 13

Sleep had not come for Lucien last night. He had tried, at first, but found himself lying awake on Mattie's mattress, listening. For what, at first, he didn't know. But as he turned over and tugged the coverlet around him, he felt a pull of responsibility. Might Christopher be bold enough to seek Jean out when he thought the house was quiet? Would he go claim what he thought was rightfully his? Most of him thought not. Jean would not have married an unprincipled man. But still, Lucien would not rest. Not that he could have if he wanted to, but with renewed purpose he sat up, listened, and thought.

What could keep a man away from his wife for 14 years? And how would that wife feel when he returned?

One afternoon, not that long ago, Lucien had held Jean's hands while she cried. Pain leaked from her eyes while she told Lucien of her plans for Christopher's return. How she'd tell him he meant everything to her and the boys, how they weren't finished. There was so much to say. She must be so relieved, he thought, to be able to say it now. Lucien had wanted so much to ease her pain then, he felt he truly should rejoice for her that she's been given that opportunity, whatever comes of it. He would resolve to give her that space to mend her heart, whatever it meant for him.

When morning's weak light first broke Lucien rose to go put on a kettle. He had laid down in the clothes he wore yesterday and got up in the same ones. There hadn't been time to sort out anything else. On the way out the door he found himself patting his vest pocket – there was nothing there, of course.

In the hall, Lucien cast an eye toward his bedroom door. It remained firmly closed. He took a step toward it. He'd like just a moment with Christopher apart from Jean. But, he thought with a sigh, Jean wouldn't like that. He turned to the kitchen to get that coffee started, but Jean was already there.

"Ah, I was going to do this for you," he said.

She glanced up at him, a smile on her face that quickly faded as she turned back toward her work. "I had a hard time sleeping," she said.

"Of course," he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. She leaned into him for a moment, then stiffened, as though she remembered herself and her situation, her husband sleeping down the hall.

Lucien cleared his throat and used that hand to turn her towards him.

"This doesn't change anything," Lucien said. "It doesn't have to. We'll sort this out."

"How does it not change anything?" Jean said, looking at him with all the pain he'd seen in her eyes that afternoon in the garden. "I have a husband."

You have a man who has shown up 14 years after being declared dead who claimed to be your husband is what Lucien opened his mouth to say. But seeing the conflict in Jean's eyes, he didn't. Christopher may well be a better choice than the mess that Lucien was, he knew that. And didn't he want what was best for her?

"Yes," was all he said in reply. "Would you like some help contacting your boys?"

"Oh, I hadn't even thought… no. It would be better coming from me," Jean said, reaching into a cupboard for a coffee cup with her back to Lucien. She poured the coffee carefully. "Only…" she turned to face him now with a cup in her outstretched hand. "Would you get in touch with Danny for me. He should know his uncle has returned."

"Of course," Lucien said, "whatever you want. I'll handle that today." Jean nodded. Her eyebrows knit together like they did when she was thinking things through. She opened her mouth to say something else, but stopped as they both turned toward the hall. A door opened.

Christopher walked toward them in Lucien's blue pajamas. They hung from his shoulders – much too large on his thin frame.

"Ah, good morning," Lucien said. "I hope you slept well."

"Yes, thank you," he said. He would be the only one, then. Christopher hesitated in the doorway and Jean, as though recollecting herself to the situation rushed toward him and laid her hand on his arm. She hesitated and dropped her eyes, almost shy, Lucien thought.

"Here, come have a seat," Lucien said, gesturing at the table, his hand held wide and welcoming.

Christopher thanked Lucien and shot a look at Jean who nodded and smiled quickly. Lucien sat his own cup of coffee in front of Christopher while Jean poured another for him.

"I was just getting some breakfast on," Jean said, pulling her white robe about her a bit tighter.

"Thank you, Jean". Lucien and Christopher spoke the words in unison.

"Yes, well," Lucien said, sitting down opposite Christopher.

The men sat in awkward silence for a moment.

"You must have had a long journey," Lucien said.

"I did, yes," Christopher replied as Jean stirred eggs a bit faster than usual.

"Where did you come from then?" Lucien asked. Jean shot him a look over Christopher's head but Lucien carried on.

"I spent time in London, convalescing. That's where I flew in from," Christopher said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"That's a long convalescence," Lucien said.

Jean slid a plate of eggs in front of each of them. "There will be time for all that later," Jean said. "Christopher, you looked so tired last night. Are you well? Do you need to be looked at."

"Yes," Lucien said. "Anything I can do."

Christopher looked warily at Lucien. "No, just fatigue now. I'm afraid I'm as well as I'm going to be at this point." Jean and Lucien shared a look of concern and confusion and Lucien opened his mouth to ask another question when the phone rang.

"I'll get it," Lucien said, jumping up.

It was Frank Carlyle. A body had been found in the lake - and Lucien was needed.

"I can beg off, call in another surgeon," he said to Jean in the hall.

"No, no, we'll be fine," Jean assured him as she ushered him toward the door.

Lucien had his doubts, but he also felt it wasn't his place to voice them. He'd attend to his work. It always helped him think. Jean handed him his hat and scarf and went to nestle it around his neck but stopped short.

"I'll be back, soon," Lucien assured her as he ducked out the door.

To be truthful, it felt good to step away from the house. But he didn't like doing it. The sky was grey, the breeze bit at his cheek a bit. He pulled his scarf tighter as he watched a police car pull up the long drive. Time would sort this out, he reasoned. But he didn't really believe it. He turned back toward the front door, took a step toward it, but no. They needed time. And he needed to work. He was accustomed to losing things in his life. But this was a dull, soul-deadening pain he hadn't felt before. This was different. This was Jean.


	14. Chapter 14

"Everything alright? Things seemed a little tense when I called," Frank Carlyle was new in town but far too perceptive for Lucien's tastes already. Still, he felt like he had to tell someone. Sometimes he didn't even know what he thought himself till he put it into words.

"I've just met Jean's husband," Lucien said.

"She's married? And you…"

"He was thought to have died in the war, fourteen years ago," Lucien said. "As far as either of us knew he did, until late last night."

"Oh," Frank said. "Well, I am sorry. What are you going to do?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Lucien said, staring out the car window as the lake came into view. And that was the absolute truth. But Frank's next comment made Lucien turn his head with haste.

"He hasn't been seen in 14 years and you've just left him alone with her all day?"

Lucien had wondered about Christopher's story, to be sure, but Jean had seemed more than happy to usher Lucien out the door. Still, something deep and primal stirred within him.

"Jean wouldn't have married anything but a good man," Lucien replied.

You're right," Frank said, appraisingly, "she clearly only has a heart for fine, upstanding citizens."

Lucien laughed dishearteningly. "Yes, well, she didn't like me much at first."

Frank raised his eyebrow as though he was unconvinced. "Haven't heard much good about her youngest son, either."

"What are you saying, Frank?" Lucien's voice had a tinge of annoyance but it would be more truly classed as impatience. He needed to hear what Frank was trying to say.

"I'm saying Jean Beazley may have a reputation as a strong, upstanding woman. But don't confuse her morals with her heart. Hearts make their own choices."

Lucien didn't know if that made him feel better or worse. But he didn't have much time to reflect on that. Frank pulled the car up alongside several others as the crime scene investigation was well underway. Charlie nodded his head at Lucien. He'd gotten in last night while Jean and Lucien were in the middle of remaking Mattie's bed and heard a truncated version of last night's events. He

"This girl was found in the lake?" Lucien asked, stepping carefully through the brush. A girl lay, face up, on the rocky shore.

"No, we thought so at first," Charlie answered. "She was left near the water but not quite in it."

"Ah," Lucien said. That seemed correct. A quick glance told him she wasn't bloated as he'd expect if she'd spent much time in the water.

"Do we have an ID on her?" Frank Carlyle asked.

Charlie shook his head. "Not yet. No identification on her. We're working on it."

Lucien knelt down at the girl's side. She was young, with dark hair and fair skin dusted with freckles. He thought of Mattie in London and his heart went out to this girl. She had clearly gotten in with the wrong people.

"Any thoughts on cause of death?" Frank asked.

"She was bound," Lucien pointed to her wrists. "And these here," he pointed to slash marks on her chest, "look more like torture than a result of struggle. And what's this, here?"

Lucien pointed to the lobe of her right ear. There appeared to be a notch missing. "Curious," he said. "But I can't make out cause of death yet. I'll need to get her on the table."

Frank nodded and gestured for men to come do just that. Lucien held up a hand to keep them at bay a moment longer. Something about this girl seemed familiar, and it wasn't that her coloring reminded him of Mattie. But no, it couldn't be. He gingerly pulled back her shirt collar, exposing a scar on the right shoulder. It was. He let go of her shirt with a sigh, then pushed himself to standing and allowed her to be lifted onto a stretcher.

"Charlie, get working on the ID," Frank said. "Start calling…"

"No need," Lucien interrupted. They both turned and looked at him, questioningly.

"Charlie, does she look familiar to you?" Lucien asked.

"No, I… should she?" Charlie started to follow the body but Lucien gestured for him to stay. "You saw her under very different – and difficult – circumstances."

Charlie still looked perplexed so Lucien contined.

"This girl's name is Ivy Douglas."

The ride back to the station was a quiet one. Lucien filled Frank in on who Ivy Douglas was, briefly. He found himself withholding key bits of information that may reflect even more poorly on Jack. Now, of all times, he needed Jack kept out of the investigation if at all possible. Jean had enough to deal with.

Once he'd finished talking to Frank he let his mind wander back. Was it just two nights ago that he'd been out looking for that girl's mother? Was it just before that long night that Jean had taken him in her arms? He'd gotten through Changi prison due more to his mental strength than his physical strength. They'd broken his body while he was there, but his mind was under his control. He could direct it at will. He could cast it somewhere entirely different, back to happier days with his daughter, forward to a future not yet realized. But no future he'd considered was as beautiful as the one he had recently begun to imagine with Jean. And no amount of self-discipline could prevent him from replaying every moment of her kissing him. The way she hung onto his lip was as real as if it were happening just then. Warmth coursed through his body. His eyes closed remembering her hands on his hips and the look in her eyes as she sent him out the door. He may have been impressed with Jean's wit and her strength when he first met her, but he had no idea who she truly was, how much there was to her. He had no notion of how fully he would become hers.

And then the car pulled into the station. He pulled himself back to the present. He couldn't see very far ahead into this future that was so altered from what he'd imagined. But he would do the next right thing. He strode purposefully into the station.

"I need to get a hold of Danny Park in Melbourne," Lucien said.

A constable handed him the phone a moment later.

"Doc," came the friendly, familiar voice.

"Danny, how are you?" Lucien asked.

"Just fine, Doc. Everything alright?"

"Well, yes. Ah," Lucien had delivered difficult news many times, both as a doctor and in wartime. He had a way of accessing other people's emotions while shutting down his own at the same time. Both skills failed him, now. "Danny, the thing is, last night, Christopher Beazley… ah," he hesitated before saying that Christopher came home. No matter how good a man he wanted to be right now he couldn't quite say it. "Knocked on the door. I promised Jean I'd let you know."

He'd expected shocked silence, but this was Danny. "Uncle Christopher! But he's dead!"

"Apparently not," Lucien said, calmly. He ran a hand over his face. He'd need to get off the phone quickly.

"How's Auntie Jean?" Danny said.

"Thrilled to have her husband home, I imagine."

Now the silence resonated.

"I should come see her," Danny said.

"I think she assumed you'd want to see your uncle. But uh, the house is a bit full at the moment. Give us some time to shuffle things around."

Lucien would have loved to see Danny's wide smile. But he assumed Jean's sons were coming as well, and he needed to get a handle on things. And he didn't yet know what Jean wanted. He'd talk with her tonight.

"You okay, Doc?" Danny asked.

"Yes, yes of course. Just a long night and a difficult case this morning. All is well. This is happy news! I'll be in touch soon, Danny."

When Danny hung up the phone in Melbourne he immediately pulled open his desk drawer and withdrew pen and paper. He dashed off words as quickly as he could, then reread, hesitated briefly, then sealed the airmail envelope. He handed it to one of the few people actually beneath him in rank at the station.

"Send this to London as quickly as Royal Mail makes possible," he said.


	15. Chapter 15

Jean had always known the right thing to do, even when she hadn't done it. Last night, she made up Mattie's room for the man she'd hoped to marry. She showed her husband where to sleep for the night. She came upstairs and sat at her garret window. And then she was completely out of ideas as to what possibly the next thing was to do. Sleep, she supposed, but sleep wouldn't come.

Instead her mind skipped back to the simple act of making Mattie's bed up with Lucien. As they each tugged up the corners of the coverlet, they paused and looked into each other's eyes. And she knew she dare not give herself an unfilled moment in the room. She saw questions in Lucien's eyes, but they were questions for her, and she couldn't answer them. He stood by the door as she hurried from the room. He didn't block her way, but he did hold out his hand and she caught it as she passed. She held it and stopped. She did not want to pass through that doorway.

"Jean," he whispered in that deep, throaty rumble that made her pay attention.

She should have his mother's ring on her finger. She should be going to sleep tonight with thoughts of things to come.

When Lucien opened that jewel box he opened up a lifetime. Where before she'd seen one day at a time, that ring said, _come dream with me._ In an instant she saw herself sleeping with her head tucked against Lucien's shoulder, his hand warm on her hip as he held her to him. She saw little Amelia Jean coming to play and Lucien holding her on his knee, kind and strong as he always was with children. She saw down a path of years that would be both completely unpredictable because life with Lucien always was, but also completely dependable. She saw joy. But now, now she was back to doing the next right thing – if she could even figure that out.

She let go of Lucien's hand.

As she had thought, as tired as she was, sleep was a long way off. She sat instead and looked at the moon out the window. They hadn't been friends, once, when she was a child. Now it's cool light fell on her face as tears fell against her cheeks. It felt like a kind of comfort, being seen like that. She chided herself for the superstition, but she and the moon had a history. She supposed a door still opened before her, but now lit by cold moonlight, rather than the heat of the sun she felt with Lucien. It was a different door, with a different man, but unchangeable all the same.

Sleep finally came for her as her sensible mind made her lie down eventually and she woke before the rest of the house as usual. She managed a tense breakfast with Lucien and Christopher before sending Lucien to work and excusing herself to get dressed. She said so little to him. After Lucien left she found herself looking at him as he sat at the table, slowly sipping his coffee.

"Where were you," she managed. It came out thin and strained, but without tears.

"I told you, I was recovering, first in Germany, then in London," Christopher said, concern in his eyes. "I was badly injured and had been rescued from the battlefield but I didn't know myself for a long time and when I did… I was in no shape to see you."

"Your son needed to see you," Jean said. "Whatever shape you were in."

"I'm sorry," Christopher said. "Truly, I got home as soon as I could."

Jean nodded, taking in his words, and pulled her robe more tightly around her.

"I need to get dressed," she said. "I have work to do."

"Yes, Lucien keeps you busy, I see."

She'd had no response to that as she climbed the stairs. Once she knew what she exactly what she would say if she ever saw Christopher again. She'd apologize, she'd open up her heart and pour everything out that she'd held onto for so long. Many nights while he was gone imagining their reunion was what kept her going. She'd been wrong to say what she did. He'd left because she was ungrateful and impulsive, but she'd make it right when he got home. She'd tell him he was enough, she'd wear a special dress.

She hung onto that dress for years, letting her fingers run over the blue fabric with its scattered white flowers when she missed him the most, even after those officers knocked on her door, even when she knew he wasn't coming home. Something about that dress gave her comfort. But eventually it passed out of style, and it only served to remind her that she'd been uncharitable and unkind. Still, she couldn't quite bear to get rid of it. So she'd altered it. She made it two pieces rather than one. She brought up the hem a bit, added some detailing on the sleeves. It had been a dress to signify new beginnings, so she'd worn it, recently, when she needed the strength to do just that.

Much like the dress she felt the apology resident in her heart alter as well. But was that for the best? Perhaps it should have stayed whole and unchanged as well as the dress.

"Jean?" Christopher called from downstairs.

How long had she stood here dithering about clothing? Honestly, Jean, she thought, and grabbed the striped shirtdress she had on yesterday morning.

"Just a moment," she called back as she slipped yesterday's clothing over her head. She reached for her cardigan and sped toward the door, but felt a weight in the pocket. Lucien's ring. She hesitated at the door, slipped her hand in her pocket and pulled it out. She opened the box and stared at the perfectly arranged stones, clear and bright and sparkling. Then she opened her jewelry box and nestled it in, just next to the one Christopher had given her as a girl, when he rescued her from a life of scandal and shame. How could she even think of withholding the apology he was due?

"Frank, I need to get home for lunch…" Lucien began to explain when Frank stopped him with his palm outstretched.

"We've got a young woman butchered by the lake, Lucien. I know what you have at home, but I need a cause of death before we can move forward with the investigation."

"Yes," Lucien said, his hand on the back of his head.

"And you seemed to know her? What do I need to know?"

"Well," Lucien truly wanted to speak to Jean before proceeding, to quell the mounting unease he felt, but also because he'd gotten on the wrong side of her before regarding Jack. He wouldn't tell her anything yet, but he did want to know if she'd located him. It might mean something. As Lucien cast about for a suitable way out of this particular issue his eyes lit on Charlie.

"Charlie! Eh, right Frank." Lucien motioned for Charlie to come with him. "I'll just have Charlie give me a lift." Lucien motioned for Charlie to follow him out of the station.

"We just need to make a stop first," Lucien said.

"I'm not taking you home, Doc," Charlie said.

"As Frank pointed out earlier, and seems to have forgotten, I've left Mrs. Beazley with a man who's as good as a stranger."

"Her name is Mrs. Beazley. You do realize what you're saying."

"Do you know the man, Charlie?"

"Are you saying that's not him? Mrs. Beazley is a smart woman. She'd recognize her own husband."

Charlie knit his eyes together like he did when he thought Lucien was being unreasonable. He actually looked a lot like Jean in those moments, Lucien thought. But Charlie was a reasonable man, and he cared for Jean. He could make him see sense, and this time, Lucien was the sensible one.

"I've been to war, Charlie. It changes a man."

Charlie sighed and looked off to the side, considering.

"And we still don't have a good answer for what kept him away so long. He didn't claim to be in a prisoner of war camp. Did he really just wait to regain his strength for 14 years?"

Charlie met his eyes again, decisively.

"I'll drop you at the morgue…"

"Charlie!"

But Charlie held his hand up to interrupt.

"I'll drop you at the morgue and then I'll go and check on Mrs. Beazley myself. If anything seems at all out of place, I won't leave. You're right, someone needs to watch out for her, but I'm not sure she needs you and Mr. Beazley under the same roof right now."

Lucien dropped his shoulders and took a breath. Charlie was right, but he didn't like it. He just wanted to see her.

"You do understand it's my roof," he said, as they walked to the car.

Charlie cracked a smile.


	16. Chapter 16

Danny Parks tapped a pen against the desk in front of a typewriter he was not using.

"You don't stop that bloody noise I'm going to take off your finger with a pocket knife," his supervisor called as he passed through the room.

Danny left off the tapping but didn't apologize. He was granted a bit more respect in Melbourne than he was in Ballarat, despite that comment, but with a lot less fondness. These were simply people he worked with. For instance, he didn't even consider chucking the pen across the room at his supervisor's head when he said that. What kind of working environment was that?

This whole day his mind kept drifting back to Ballarat. Sure, sometimes he thought of his Uncle Christopher and how in the world he could be back, really, how in the world he could have been missing for so long and not killed. But mostly, bits of childhood would just drift in front of his mind. Earlier this morning he'd been at a crime scene investigating a robbery. He'd been supposed to catalog the items missing, look for ways someone could have broken in, but the dishes had the same pattern as his mother's – her fanciest, that was. They were white with gold edges and sprigs of green leaves and deep red flowers that made him think of Christmas.

When was the last time he'd seen his mothers' dishes? Had they been sold when she died? What happened to them? He was 17 when the Lord took her and the last thing on his mind was who got her good dishes. Auntie Jean would know. She knew everything. She knew how to keep him aloft when his parents passed and how to run the doctor's house when he passed, and he hadn't even thought of how she'd taken care of herself and her boys when Uncle Christopher died. Jean just managed. Always. He hadn't worried about anything with Auntie Jean around.

Oughtn't he have known what happened to those dishes, at least?

Lucien had said not to come, but when did he ever do just what Lucien said?

Danny must have taken up with the pen again, because his supervisor sighed deeply and asked when he'd have the report done. "If you're tapping, you're not typing," were his actual words.

Danny apologized and turned his attention to his paperwork, as much of his attention as he could command, that was. It truly only took a few minutes. He unspooled it from the machine and laid it in front of the man with stern eyes but a round face.

"I need to go home for a day or two," Danny said. "There's been a bit of an emergency."

"You scheduled this weekend?"

"Not today, but Sunday."

"Nothing bad every happens on a Sunday," he said by way of agreeing. "You find anything interesting at the scene? Anything I should know about without having to read all this?"

"The man was missing a gold watch with an engraving on the back from his father. Seems heartless to steal a thing like that."

"I meant to do with solving the crime."

"Right, well, blood on the door-jamb, maybe from breaking in. Forced entry for sure. Man was out for the evening. Said he was at the movies. When he came back, the door had been forced open and his house tossed. Watch was missing, a few hundred in cash from the kitchen, and some other small things. Neighbors hadn't heard anything. Hadn't seen anything strange. No one else was robbed nearby but they're all worried now."

"Sure, everyone's afraid they'll be killed in their sleep for their mother's good china. Doesn't usually work that way. We'll check pawn shops for the watch, but I doubt much'll come of it. You've got the description here?"

"It's all there," Danny said. His foot tapped now making his whole long, lean frame shake a bit. He didn't realize he was doing it till the supervisor shot him a look. He stopped. He was pretty sure something else would be tapping soon, though.

"Get out of here. Hope all's well at home."

"Thanks, boss!" Danny said, grabbing his jacket.

"Hey, you said emergency, no one's dead I hope." His supervisor said, probably doubting his last joke.

"Kind of the opposite, actually," Danny called back on his way out the door.

Lucien walked into the morgue, late, which wasn't unusual. Alice would have gotten started without him and be doing a damn fine job. He had managed to convince Charlie to stop by the house but Charlie would not let Lucien get out.

"Then let me just leave you here to keep an eye on Mrs. Beazley," Lucien said.

"Who'll be keeping an eye on you?" Charlie had muttered, but he got out of the car. Lucien knew Charlie's heart was nearly as large as his own, with similar vulnerabilities – Jean being chief among them.

Having left Charlie at the house Lucien shed just enough worry so that he stood a chance of doing his job as he entered the morgue.

"Alice, have you got started?" he asked.

"No, I waited for you."

"Whatever for?" Lucien asked, slipping into his lab coat.

"Because you know something about this, something you haven't told me, and I don't enjoy being at a disadvantage."

Lucien opened his mouth to dispute her assertion, then sighed. Who was he kidding. He wouldn't get anything past Alice.

"Very well," Lucien said. "This girl was known to Jean's son, Jack. She was pregnant at one point and I believe the child was Jack's. That's all I know, I swear." Lucien held his hands up in surrender.

Alice raised an eyebrow and surveyed him with a sharp eye that looked a bit hawk-like. Lucien wondered what his life would be like if Jean and Alice ever became truly close. He thought just then he might not invite Alice round the house too much for fear of a truly unstoppable alliance. "Does Jean know?"

"Well, she knew about Ivy the last time she came through town, and knew about the child. She doesn't know she's here now and I don't want her to, yet."

"Hm," Alice said, then turned her back to Lucien and reached for her tools.

"Jean has a lot going on just now. I don't want to add Jack to her list of worries."

"Jean Beazley has had a lot going on most of her life and handled it just fine without you deciding what she should and shouldn't know. She's stronger than you think."

Lucien put a hand on his hip and the other on his brow. Was he underestimating Jean? She was the strongest woman he knew, but didn't we all have our limits? God knows he'd faced his many times. "Let's just see where this leads, Alice. Once there's something to tell her, I'll tell her."

As he began to look more deeply into the secrets that Ivy Douglass's body held, he asked himself if he was protecting Jean or himself. There was a small part of him, one he didn't want to give voice, that feared for something and it wasn't for Jean's safety, it was for his own. Because he knew if his own wife showed up on his doorstep, the one thing that would drive him to her would be fear for his daughter. Lucien needed to solve this case and he needed to do it quickly, before anyone in town so much as whispered Jack Beazley's name.


	17. Chapter 17

There was a chill in the damp air and the fog hung low about the lake. Christopher walked through tall grasses dotted with the dead, yellowing leaves of autumn till he came to the bench under the willow tree.

"Where are you off to?" Jean had called as she saw him slip through the front door. He'd hoped her work would keep her busy enough to not notice his brief disappearance.

"I just need a walk."

"I can come with you. You've not been back for so long you might –"

"I remember the way," he cut her off. Then smiled wide enough to show his dimples. "Jean Mary, are you worried about me?"

She laughed a little. "I can't imagine why I would be," she replied.

He turned and went back to her, took her face in both of his long, thin hands and kissed her quick. "Nothing's going to happen to me," he said.

Her eyes knit together making the lines in her forehead he knew so well. She nodded like she understood. But she couldn't possibly. Someone like Jean never would. He let go of her and winked as he turned away.

"I'll be home for dinner," he said, like had so many times before. It was all so familiar. He could have been 20 again and headed out for a drink. She could have been a young woman with hair halfway down her back, smiling and hoping like she always did. He could have been young enough to make things right. But she wasn't, and he wasn't, and he never could have anyway. Things would be what they would be.

The bench stood empty. The leaves swirled and the winds blew, but no one waited to meet him. But he wasn't told to walk to the bench and look around, he was told to go to the bench and wait.

And so he did.

Jean pulled the roast from the oven and Charlie reflected, not for the first time, that this was the kind of home people wished for, aromatic and savory, clean and warm. Everything about it pulled you in and it was all thanks to Jean, who stood now, in front of the oven with hot pads on her hands and a frown on her face. She glanced, again, toward the door.

"You really think he's alright?"

"I think if he survived what he did already, a walk to the lake won't trouble him."

"It's just been so long," Jean said.

It had been a long time. Hours. And Charlie wasn't happy about it. He had a policeman's instinct to check things out, but if anything was wrong, and he thought it might be, his highest priority was Jean's safety. So he stayed exactly where he was and offered what reassurances he could.

Just as he was beginning to wonder if he made the right call, the door burst open and they both breathed a sigh of relief.

"Auntie Jean!" came the voice, which was decidedly not Christopher's.

"Danny?" Jean set down her hot pads and strode into the hall to see for herself. Danny smiled wide and threw his arms around his aunt.

"Christopher's home, is he?"

"Well," she started.

But Charlie had his opportunity. With Danny here he could do as he'd wanted and go see about Christopher. He slapped Danny on the back. "Watch out for her," he said. "I'll be back in a moment."

"What am I watching out for?" Danny said, as he watched Charlie grab his hat and pull the door open.

"Oh," Charlie stepped back as a tall, dark haired man entered the house. His eyes narrowed in surprise as the door fell away before him, and he looked about to exclaim. But his countenance shifted quickly from annoyance to amusement.

"Looks like a full house," he said, looking from Charlie to Danny.

"Oh Christopher!" Jean rushed toward him, hesitating just a moment, Charlie noticed, before taking him by the arm and pulling him in. "Danny's come to see you."

"Little Danny Parks?" Christopher said, crossing to Danny. "I feel like I should pick you up and swing you around but you're taller than I am. Or nearly!" He pulled Danny into a hug.

"It's good to see you Uncle Christopher. I still can't believe you're back. I don't think I would have believed it if I hadn't seen you."

"He drove from Melbourne," Jean said.

"Lucien said it might not be a good idea, but I couldn't stay away."

"And how would Lucien know what's a good idea for us?" Christopher asked quizzically.

Jean opened her mouth to respond, but Christopher turned to Charlie before she could.

"And this is…" Christopher narrowed his eyes as through trying attach Charlie to the face of a child he once knew.

"Ah, this is Charlie Davis," Jean said, laying a hand on Charlie's arm. "He works with Lucien and rents a room here. And he's a great help to me," Jean said.

Charlie would have stood between Jean and anything at that moment, and truly, when the door opened one more time he thought he may have to. But it was Dr. Blake who walked through and looked thoroughly taken aback by the scene in front of him.

"Doc!" Both Danny and Charlie chorused together. But Danny's was a hearty greeting accompanied by a chagrined smile, while Charlie's was more an acknowledgment that help had arrived. Somehow, some way, Dr. Blake would know what to do.

But then Charlie looked at Lucien's face and, well, it was going to be a long night.

"I know you said not to come Doc, but…"

"Nonsense," Lucien said, recovering himself. "It's always good to see you, Danny. We'll figure it out." He shot a look at Jean who nodded. They always did figure things out.

Jean raised her eyebrows and told them all the dinner had been done for a while and they needed to eat before it got cold. Danny and Christopher took their seats while Lucien took a moment to remove his coat and hat. Charlie lingered in the hallway.

"How's she been, Charlie?"

"Worried. Christopher left two hours ago to take a walk. Only got back a few minutes ago."

"Where'd he go?" Lucien asked.

Charlie shook his head. He had no idea. Lucien pursed his lips as he hung his hat on the hook.

"Did you find a cause of death for Ivy?"

Lucien nodded. "Her neck was broken."

"Could she have fallen somehow? Broke it in the lake?"

Lucien put his arm around Charlie's neck from behind. "Only if she fell while someone was holding her like this."

Charlie sputtered as Lucien let go to hang his coat.

"Well, that's murder then?"

Lucien nodded and pulled Charlie away toward the door. "That's not the distressing part, though."

Charlie raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.

"She's delivered a child. I can't know if it was born living. But if it was, Jean has a grandchild out there without a mother."

Charlie turned toward Jean who was laughing at something Danny said while she sat a plate in front of Christopher.

"And she's not to know about it. Not yet."


	18. Chapter 18

The dinner had not gone well. Lucien should have expected that. He did expect that, actually, which was why he asked Danny to wait a bit before coming. Everyone's emotions were high and patience was thin and he and Charlie together was never going to be peaceful. Charlie seemed to feel Jean needed protecting at all costs from everyone, including Lucien and Danny felt some familial loyalty to Christopher it seemed. Mattie would have been able to set things right. She'd have kicked them both out, most likely. And on any other day Jean could have called for peace with just a look. But Jean wasn't herself either. She just kept smiling at Christopher. Jean didn't typically smile that much so it worried Lucien. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe she just didn't smile at him that way. Maybe she just really loved her husband.

Which is probably what Lucien was thinking when he decided to grill Christopher on just where he had been all these years and that's truly when things devolved. Should he have known better, yes? Would he have done things any differently? Probably not. The evening ended with Charlie driving Christopher to a hotel and Jean leaving them to clean up while she took herself to bed, early.

Christopher had given a plausible explanation. He'd been taken captive by German forces after the siege at Tobruk. He'd been presumed dead, but remained in a POW camp until the camps were evacuated and marched to Eastbourne where he should have been repatriated to Australia. But the marches were difficult, and he fell behind. He was scared, alone, sick, and trying to survive where he didn't speak the language. Jean and Charlie and Danny had all nodded sympathetically. But Lucien had been overseas, he'd been ill, he'd been a prisoner. All those things might account for an absence of two or three years, but how many had Christopher been gone? No, it wasn't quite right.

Lucien gazed at the empty stairwell, listening to Jean's heels click along the wooden steps as she shut herself in her room. He'd intended to follow her all the way up, imagined the conversation when he told her he loved her so much, that no resurrection of any sort would diminish that. He'd tell her he'd retreat if that's what she wanted but not out of apathy, only out of sacrifice. He'd tell her everything. But he stood there long after he knew he'd never follow, long after her the scent of her faded from the air and his feet became feet of clay.

"Think she's okay?" It was Charlie's grave face that turned to Lucien, also at the foot of the stairs but for how long, Lucien didn't know. He hadn't even heard the door. He shook himself from the reverie with a shrug.

"Mattie would know," Lucien said. He realized in that moment how much he missed Mattie's interventions. Charlie just nodded. What they both wouldn't give for Mattie right now to step in where they were collectively afraid to. Because that was the truth, wasn't it? He did know how Jean felt. He was just terrified to do anything about it.

"Mattie would know what?" Danny's lanky frame approached from the kitchen, his sleeves were rolled up and he dried his hands on a tea towel.

Charlie didn't answer, just nodded toward the empty stairwell.

"She'd be better if the two of you weren't hammering for details. What was that about?" Danny asked.

"Someone needs to look after her," Charlie insisted.

"She's plenty looked after," Danny retorted. "She needs a little space."

Lucien shushed them both. There'd been enough bickering for one night and he knew sound carried up those stairs.

Charlie pursed his lips and looked between the two of them. "I'm just saying something's not right."

"Look, I know it's strange that he's come back after all this time, but it _is_ Uncle Christopher. I know him."

Lucien found his ability to move as he ushered them all away from the stairwell. "I'm sure it is," Lucien said. "I don't doubt his identity."

"Just his motives," Charlie muttered as they Lucien led them toward his surgery.

"What could his motives be? He's just home and wants his wife. It's been a long time."

"Yes, it's been a very long time with no word at all," Charlie insisted.

Danny opened his mouth to answer but Lucien stopped him.

"Danny, if you want to help Jean you won't do it by taking on Charlie. I need you to help me find Jack. Can you do that?"

"Jack Beazley?" Danny said.

Charlie just looked at him like he was actually the stupidest person he knew but swallowed whatever he'd meant to say with a look from Lucien.

"Sure, I mean. It won't be easy if he doesn't want to be found but…"

"If it's too hard, I can do it," Charlie jumped in.

Lucien held up a hand. "I have another job for you. And it isn't too hard, is it, Danny?"

"Of course not," Danny said. "I'll start in the morning. I'll make some calls to Melbourne."

"Right," Lucien said, "but I don't want anyone knowing about this that could get in touch with Jean. She has enough to worry about."

Danny nodded as though he understood but it was Charlie, Lucien was sure, who took the deeper truth. If Charlie were distrustful of Christopher on a hunch, his animosity for Jack was born of experience though tempered by love for Jean. It was love, wasn't it, that caused him to fight for her so hard. If he were ten years older Lucien might worry that he were a rival. As it stood, well, he had more immediate concerns.

"And what's next?" Danny asked, looking at Charlie.

"Next is we get you a room to sleep in. I'll gather my things from Mattie's room and you can have that while you're with us. Now that mine's free."

Danny's visage visibly changed and Lucien wondered if it was the reference to Christopher having removed himself or something else. At any rate, it was enough to get Danny moving out of the surgery and toward the room. Charlie made to follow, but Lucien kept a hand on his arm to hold him back.

"She had the baby, that girl Ivy."

"Jean's a grandmother?"

"She may be."

"Isn't it curious this girl turned back up at the same time as Christopher, _and_ we can't find Jack?"

Lucien inclined his head as though to say, of course it is. He did like having an ally.

"But Jean,"

"Jean can't know any of it."

He felt badly. She did love helping solve his cases and ordinarily she'd be his biggest help. But he felt the one thing he could do for her now was to find her family. It might be the last gift he could give her. And though something pulled at his heart and told him to protect her from this man who'd come back from the dead to claim her, if Lucien could prove him worthy and good, it would be exactly what Jean would want, a restored, family.

Jean closed her eyes on her bed, thankful the long night was over. Voices drifted up the stairs, intense voices from men she loved, from her family, fighting over what was right. She longed to be disinterested enough to join them. If this were anyone else's life she'd have such a strong opinion. As it were, she just lay there, fully clothed, and begged sleep to pull her conscious mind away. As it did, as she gave up her hold on her thoughts she felt herself wrapped up by strong arms, with large, warm hands that held her tight.


	19. Chapter 19

"I brought you something," Jean said. Christopher had been in the hotel for days now and still, to wake up every morning and go visit her husband felt, well, she had no category for this sort of thing and Jean preferred things to have categories.

"Oh, thank you," Christopher said, peering into the basket on her arm. "The scones here are terrible."

"So I've heard," Jean said. "But this is sponge cake." She set the basket on the table as she took a seat. She sat up very straight. When she wasn't sure what to do she always had exceptional posture.

"Is the hotel comfortable?" She asked, finally.

"It's fine," Christopher said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Still fine."

Neither spoke for a moment and Jean dropped her eyes but smiled widely to make up for it. She didn't know why it was so awkward to be with her husband. Even after so many years, shouldn't one just pick up where they left off? She wondered if she'd feel awkward around Lucien, should he ever vanish and reappear. My goodness, what a thought. She pulled the cake out of the basket in an effort to pull her mind back to the present.

As she set about cutting slices he put his hand over hers. His fingers were as long and thin and fine as she remembered – perfect fingers for farming. He closed them around the knife. "You know, you aren't just the housekeeper here."

Her eyes lifted to his. "Are you saying you don't want cake?"

"I'll always take a slice of your cake, Jean Mary."

She felt her shoulders straightening farther still, involuntarily. But she regained control of the knife.

"I'm sorry Jack hasn't been by to see you," she said, handing him the cake.

"He was always touchy."

"Life's been hard on him," Jean replied.

"He was difficult before that."

"Full of life," Jean countered, smiling as she handed Christopher his cake.

"How old was he when he climbed the ice box and got stuck on the top?" Christopher asked.

"Eighteen months," Jean said with a rueful smile.

"I can see your eyes like it was yesterday. Like giant frozen lakes. Angry lakes."

"He scared me to death."

"We've been through a lot together," Christopher said just before he put a bite of the desert into his mouth. "It's good cake, Jean Mary."

"Jack's gotten into more trouble than just climbing ice boxes since you've left, Christopher."

"I didn't just leave. There was a war on. One you wanted me to fight." A bit of a growl came through those words and Jean shifted in her seat.

"I never meant for you to… oh, it doesn't matter. I just want you to know – it's been hard on him. I'm sure he'll be by to see you as soon as he can."

"Life's been hard on all of us," Christopher said. "But it could get better. Come with me."

"Come with you? Where, Christopher? How?"

"You could still work for Lucien. You don't have to live there do you? You're not his babysitter. Or… what exactly are you to Lucien?"

Jean felt the flush burn scarlet in her cheeks and turned her face away. The silence fell again.

"I should go," Jean said. "I've got work to do."

"Jean, I'm sorry." Christopher stood up quickly. He towered over her.

She held up a hand. It was fine. She didn't want an explanation.

"I just miss you."

"Where were you? All those years?"

"I told you. I was recuperating."

"For over a decade?"

"I was lost."

Jean looked at him. She could feel the furrow deepening between her eyes. She'd been lost too, for a time. Jack was still. And then she turned to go.

Mattie read the letter a second time. And then a third. The thin tissue-like paper of the airmail letter wouldn't hold up to much more of her incredulity but she just had to look again and make sure she got it right.

 _Dear Mattie,_

 _I have news from Ballarat. Or from Melbourne, haven't actually made it there yet. Oh hang it all, Jean's husband Christopher came home. Lucien just called to tell me. I know how you care about them and think you'd want to know. By the time this letter arrives I'll know more._

 _Much love,_

 _Danny_

Danny was always fooling with her. Could this be a joke of his? It didn't sound like a joke. And it wasn't like him to make things up wholesale. He'd tease a little, poke a little fun, but this? No, Danny wouldn't make up this.

Mattie knew she should be thinking of Jean and her world turned upside down, but it was Lucien's face that she saw in her mind's eye. His deep blue eyes would turn down at the corners. He'd run a hand across his beard. He'd try to gather himself and be strong for Jean, but he had a way, when he was troubled, of radiating sadness through the entire house. You couldn't be in his presence and not feel his pain. He just couldn't help it, such giant of a man but his heart was so transparent.

Mattie could feel the ache in his heart from here, like a dagger of melancholy that pierced her own heart. And she was so very far away. She tossed the letter aside on the table like it was poisoned. She paced the small apartment. She sat and held her head. She picked the letter up again. But no matter what she did, the pain was the same. Lucien's pain. Jean's pain. They were hers. They were family. And her family was broken. She had to do something. She pulled her scarf from the hat rack next to the door and slipped into her jacket. It may be springtime in London, but her heart was in the damp autumn of Ballarat.

Lucien sat at Charlie's desk in the station, bent over paperwork he just couldn't quite believe. He had Ivy Douglass's medical records file open in front of him. But it wasn't Ivy's records he was looking over.

"Ahem," a throat cleared in front of him and Lucien startled so that he nearly scattered the papers to the floor. He caught them before that could happen, nevertheless, Charlie caught a glimpse.

"Lucien…" he began.

"Listen, Charlie, it's for her own –"

"What did you find?" he asked.

"Ah…" Lucien gathered himself. "Yes, well, something curious indeed. What is it you have there?" He gestured toward the paper in Charlie's hand.

"Sorry – a telegram came in."

Lucien took it. It was from Mattie, bless her perfectly timed heart.

 _Lucien, I got word about C. On my way home to Ballarat unless you stop me._

"Come with me, Charlie."

"Are we stopping her?" Charlie asked.

"We are. Mattie needs to stay right where she is. We need her help in London."

And as they made haste to the telegram office, he shoved Christopher Beazley's medical records into Charlie's hands.


End file.
